I was pulling a mushroom gratin out of the oven my wife Helens favourite dish. The kids were already snuggled in their beds, and the house was filled with the comforting heat and the aroma of herbs. My mobile buzzed on the kitchen table.
The screen lit up with a short message:
Love, Im waiting for you. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they knocked my whole reality off its axis. Ten years of marriage crumbled in an instant.
I stared at the screen until it went dark. A second later 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, a business 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 more often lately, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he offered.
I watched him in silence, his eyes fixed on his plate.
All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to the most me or himself?
Are you alright? he asked, noticing my quiet.
Yes, just tired, I replied with a smile.
Inside, everything was falling apart.
When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I couldnt sleep. With my eyes shut I replayed the way we met, the way hed admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came marriage, pregnancy, a second pregnancy, and a business that demanded ever more of his time.
You understand, dont you? The most important thing is that we get stable, hed tell me.
I understood. I ran the house, organised appointments, answered calls. My sketches ended up in a drawer, saved for better days.
The next morning I began noticing details Id never seen before: how he chose his shirts with care, how he spent ages fixing his hair, how his gaze flicked away when his phone buzzed.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Jack, asked, clinging to my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting, I said.
An important 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 wardrobe, too pretty for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the household. But inside a single question burned why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter, Poppy, whispered, pulling me into a hug.
Its fine, love, I said. Im just a bit exhausted.
But this time I didnt buy my own excuse.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches from the drawer ideas and projects that had once felt alive. I found a design for a childrens bedroom Id drawn when I was pregnant with Poppy bright, whimsical, with hanging swings and modular walls.
And David had said then, Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
It was just?
When had 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 cant keep living like this.
The following night, with the children at their grandmothers, I waited for him with a clear decision in my heart.
When he walked in, not even taking off his coat, I asked:
Who is she?
The question that had been gnawing at me slipped out, cutting the silence like a knife.
David froze, then poured himself a whisky. His hands shook.
Emily, he muttered.
Just tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I said.
He sat opposite me, nervously twirling his glass.
It means nothing, he claimed.
Nothing?
Its just you know, things have been cold between us for ages.
Cold?
I remembered everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Skipping a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he asked.
When did it all get so cold? I demanded.
When I stopped wearing nice dresses? he guessed.
When I gave up my own dream for your company? I shot back.
He grimaced.
Dont dramatise it. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our kids. Is that what you call being a housewife?! I exploded.
Sophie, listen to me he began, reaching for my hand.
We can sort this out. Ill quit. We can start over, he promised.
But I was already looking at a stranger.
Whats the worst part? I asked.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman, I said. Its that you dont even understand what youve done.
I will be myself again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I collected the kids, and from there a new chapter began.
I was no longer living in anyones shadow. I was finally myself again.
And the uncertainty no longer frightened me. On the contrary, it felt wonderful.
Because the greatest betrayal of all is betraying yourself.
