Im preparing dinnera mushroom gratin, Jamess favourite dish. The children are already asleep, and the house is warm, filled with the aroma of spices. My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
The screen lights up with a short message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they shatter my reality in an instant. Ten years of marriage collapse in a heartbeat.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark. A second later another notification appears; I dont read it.
My hands tremble as I slide the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we built togetheror rather, one he 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, he says.
I believed him.
When he comes home late, as he has been doing lately, I ask no questions.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he apologises. I watch him in silence, his gaze fixed on his plate.
All I can think of is one question:
Who is he lying to mostme or himself?
Are you okay? he notices my silence.
Yes, just tired, I reply with a smile, while inside everything crumbles.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I cant sleep. With my eyes closed I replay how we met, how he admired my sketches, how he promised a bright future.
Then the marriage, the first pregnancy, the second pregnancy, the business demanding more and more of his time.
You understand, dont you? The most important thing is that we stabilise, he says.
I understand. I run the household, schedule appointments, answer calls, and I tuck my sketches away in a drawerfor better days.
The next morning I start noticing details Id missed before: how he carefully selects his shirt, how he spends too long fixing his hair, how he looks away when reading his messages.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Harry, begs, clinging to my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, I have an important meeting, I tell him.
An important meetingdoes she wear a blue dress? The same one I wore at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in my wardrobe, too elegant for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I keep doing everything as before: preparing breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet a single question burns inside mewhy?
Who is she? How long has this been going on?
Mum, youre sad, my daughter, Olivia, says, hugging me gently.
Its fine, darling. Im just weary, I answer, but I no longer believe my own excuses.
We need to talk.
That evening I pull my old sketches from the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects. I find a drawing of a childrens bedroom I made when I was expecting Lucybright, whimsical, with hanging swings and modular walls.
And James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a childrens room.
Just when did my dreams become just anything?
My phone buzzes again, this time with a message from him: Ill be home late tonight.
I stare at the screen and suddenly realise I cant go on like this.
The next night, with the kids at their grandmothers, I wait for him with a clear decision in my heart. He walks in, coat still on, and I ask, Who is she?
The question Ive been holding inside slips out, cutting the silence like a knife.
James freezes, then pours himself a whisky, his hands shaking.
Claire he mutters.
Just tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I demand.
He sits opposite me, fidgeting with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he says.
Anything?
Its just that you understand, between us everything has been cold for ages.
Cold.
I recall everything: making him 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 press.
When what? he replies.
When did it all become cold?
When I stopped wearing nice dresses?
When I sacrificed my dream for your business?
He winces.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife.
A housewife?
I did your bookkeeping, organised your meetings, raised our children. Is that what being a housewife means?!
Sophie, listen to me he tries to take my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit. We can start over.
But I already see a stranger in front of me.
You know whats the worst part? I say.
He stays silent.
Its not that youve met another woman.
Its that you dont even grasp what youve done.
I will become myself again.
That night, for the first time in years, I open my sketchbook. The next morning I pick up the children, and then a new chapter begins.
I am no longer someones shadow. I am myself again, and the uncertainty no longer scares me. On the contrary, it feels wonderful.
Because the deepest betrayal is betraying yourself.
