I was pulling together dinner a mushroom gratin, Toms favourite dish. The kids were already tucked in, and the house was humming with warmth and the scent of spices. My phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
The screen lit up with a short message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, but they knocked my world off its axis. Ten years of marriage collapsed in an instant.
I stared at the screen until it went dark. A heartbeat later another notification appeared. I didnt read it.
My hands shook as I slid the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two kids. A business wed built together or rather, a business hed built while I sacrificed my own ambitions.
Darling, the most important thing right now is that you back me up. Youll have time for your own projects later, hed said.
I believed him.
When he came home late, as was becoming the norm, I didnt ask any questions.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he said.
I watched him in silence, his eyes glued to his plate.
All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to more me or himself?
Okay? he asked, noting my quiet.
Yeah, just a bit tired, I replied with a smile.
Inside, everything was crumbling.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I lay awake, eyes closed, replaying how we first met the way hed admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
And then
Marriage. Pregnancy. A second pregnancy. A business that devoured more and more of my time.
You understand, dont you? The most important thing is that we get stable, hed say.
I understood. I ran the household, scheduled appointments, answered calls. My sketches ended up in a drawer, waiting for someday.
The next morning I began to notice details that had slipped past me before: how he meticulously chose his shirt, how he spent ages perfecting his hair, how he glanced away when his phone buzzed.
Dad, can you play with me tonight? our younger lad, Jack, asked, clinging to my sleeve.
Sorry, buddy, Ive got a big meeting, I said.
A big meeting. I wondered would she be wearing a blue dress? The same one Id worn at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in the back of the wardrobe, far too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. But one question kept burning inside me why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, youre sad, my daughter, Poppy, said, giving me a gentle squeeze.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit knackered, I replied, no longer believing my own excuse.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled out my old sketchbooks from the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects I found a drawing of a childrens bedroom Id made when I was expecting Poppy. Bright colours, hanging swings, modular walls.
And Tom had said, Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
Just what?
When had my dreams turned into a dismissive just?
The phone buzzed again. A new message from him:
Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and suddenly realised I couldnt keep going like this.
The next night, with the kids at Grandmas, I waited for him, a clear decision humming in my chest.
He walked in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The question, long simmering, cut through the silence like a knife.
Tom froze. He poured himself a whisky, his hands trembling.
Claire he managed.
Tell me the truth. I have the right to know, I said.
He fidgeted with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he muttered.
Anything?
Its just you know, things have been cold between us for ages, he tried.
Cold?
I remembered everything:
Making him breakfast when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Giving up a trip to London for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he asked.
When things went cold? I demanded.
When I stopped wearing nice dresses?
When I gave up my own dream for your company?
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he snapped.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, arranged your meetings, raised our kids. Thats being a housewife?! I exploded.
Sophie, listen he began, reaching for my hand.
We can sort this. Ill quit. We can start over.
But I was already looking at a stranger.
You know whats the worst part? I said.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman.
Its that you havent even grasped what youve done.
Im going to be me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I collected the kids, and from that moment a new chapter began.
I was no longer someone elses shadow. I was me, full stop.
And the uncertainty that once terrified me now felt wonderful. After all, the worst betrayal is betraying yourself.
