9October2025
I was pulling together dinner a mushroom gratin, Jamess favourite dish. The kids were already asleep and the house was warm, scented with the spices Id been simmering. My phone buzzed on the kitchen tabletop.
The screen lit up with a brief message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they upended everything in an instant. Ten years of marriage seemed to collapse in a heartbeat.
I stared at the screen until it went dark, then another notification appeared. I didnt read it. My hands trembled as I slipped the gratin into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business wed built together or rather, one hed built while I sacrificed my own ambitions.
Darling, the most important thing now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, hed said. I believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing of late, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate.
And all I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to me, or himself?
Are you alright? he noticed my silence.
Fine, just tired, I replied, forcing a smile. Inside, everything was crumbling.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I lay awake, eyes shut, replaying how wed met. How hed admired my sketches, promising a bright future.
Marriage. Pregnancy. A second pregnancy. A business demanding ever more of my time.
You see, the priority now is to get stable, hed said. I understood. I ran the house, kept appointments, answered calls, and shoved my drawings into a drawer for better days.
The next morning I began to notice details that had slipped past me before: the way he chose his shirt, the extra time he spent fixing his hair, the way his gaze flicked away when he read messages.
Dad, can you play with me tonight? our younger son, Ethan, asked, tugging at my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting, I answered.
An important meeting. I wondered whether hed be wearing that blue dress Id worn at the start of our relationship the one now gathering dust in my closet, too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as I always had: 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, Olivia, whispered, hugging me tightly.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit weary, I said, but this time I didnt buy my own excuse.
We need to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches from the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects. I found the drawing of a childrens bedroom Id made while pregnant with Olivia bright, whimsical, with hanging swings and modular walls.
And James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a nursery.
When did my dreams become just simple?
My phone buzzed again. A message from him: Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and suddenly realised I could not go on like this.
The following night, with the kids at their grandmothers, I waited for him, a clear decision forming in my heart. He slipped in, coat still on, and I asked,
Who is she?
The words left my mouth quietly but cut the silence like a blade. He froze, then poured himself a whisky, his hands shaking.
Claire he started.
Tell me the truth. I have the right to know.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything.
Nothing?
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?
When did it become cold?
When I stopped wearing nice dresses?
When I sacrificed my dream for your company?
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife.
A housewife?
Ive done the accounts, organised your meetings, raised our children. Is that what being a housewife looks like?!
Sophie, listen he tried to take my hand.
We could sort this out. Ill step back. We could start over.
But I already saw a stranger sitting across from me.
You know whats worst? I said.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman.
Its that you dont even understand what youve done.
I will become myself again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I collected the children, and then a new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I was me again. And the uncertainty that once terrified me now felt beautiful.
After all, the cruelest betrayal is betraying yourself.
