I was putting the finishing touches on a mushroom gratin Jamess favourite dish while the house swelled with the warmth of the kitchen and the scent of herbs. The children were already asleep. My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
The screen lit up with a brief text:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they shattered my world in an instant. Ten years of marriage crumbled in a heartbeat.
I stared at the message until the screen went dark. A second later another notification appeared, but I didnt read it.
My hands shook as I slid the gratin into the oven. Ten years. Two kids. A business we had built together or rather, one he had built while I gave myself away.
Darling, the most important thing right now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, he had said.
I believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing more and more, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he murmured.
I watched him in silence, his eyes fixed on his plate, and only one question rang in my head:
Who is he lying to me or himself?
Are you okay? he noticed my quiet.
Fine, just tired, I replied with a smile, while inside everything was falling apart.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I lay awake. With my eyes closed I replayed the moment we first met, the way he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came marriage, pregnancy, a second pregnancy, a business that demanded ever more of his time.
You understand, dont you? The priority now is getting stable, he insisted.
I understood. I ran the household, scheduled appointments, answered calls, and tucked my drawings away in a drawer waiting for a better day.
The next morning I began to notice details Id missed before: how he carefully chose his shirt, how he spent ages fixing his hair, how his gaze slipped away when a message pinged.
Dad, can you play with me tonight? our younger son, Oliver, begged, tugging at my sleeve.
Sorry, champ, Ive got an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wondered if she would be wearing that blue dress the one I wore at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in the wardrobe, too elegant for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the household. Yet a single question burned inside me why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter Emily whispered, pulling me into a gentle hug.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit weary, I answered, but I no longer believed my own excuse.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches from the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects. Among them was a design for a childrens bedroom Id drawn while I was pregnant with Emily bright, whimsical, with hanging swings and modular walls.
James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
It was just
When had my dreams become just?
The phone buzzed again. A message from him: Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and suddenly realised I could not keep living like this.
The following night, with the children at their grandmothers, I waited for him with a clear decision in my heart. He walked in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The question that had been smouldering inside me slipped out, cutting the silence like a knife.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky. His hands trembled.
Claire, he said quietly.
Tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I demanded.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he replied.
Anything?
Its just that you know, things have been cold between us for a long time.
Cold?
I recalled everything:
Preparing his breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Giving up a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he asked.
When did it get cold? I asked.
When I stopped wearing nice dresses? he muttered.
When I gave up my own dreams for your company? I shot back.
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our children. Is that what you call a housewife?! I shouted.
Sophie, listen he tried to take my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit. We can start over, he offered.
But I saw a stranger staring back at me.
You know what the worst part is? I said, voice low.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman. Its that you never understood the damage youve caused.
I would be myself again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I collected the kids, and a new chapter began.
I was no longer a shadow of someone else. I was me again, and the uncertainty that once frightened me now felt wonderful.
The deepest betrayal is not being unfaithful to another, but betraying yourself.
