**Diary Entry 29th March**
I glanced at my husbands supermarket receipt and saw two jars of baby food. But we dont have children. That evening, everything became clear.
The receipt lay on the kitchen table, white and innocentjust the tally of Jamess evening trip to Tesco. My eyes skimmed the lines: milk, bread, cheese. All as usual. Then, two jars of baby food. Apple puree.
We didnt have children.
James, whats this? I tapped the line with my fingernail as he walked in, rustling a bag.
He barely glanced at it. Oh, for Thompson from work. His daughter just had a babyasked me to pick some up. His tone was light as he opened the fridge. Mans swamped, never has time.
It sounded plausible. Even generous. But something in his steady voice put me on edge.
The next day, his suit jacket, tossed over the bedroom chair, smelled foreign. Not my perfume, not his cologne. A faint, sweet whiff of baby powder. I pressed the fabric to my face. The scent clung, insistent. This wasnt an accident.
That evening, I asked again, keeping my voice steady. Did you drop by Thompsons today? Give him the food?
James, eyes on his phone, nodded. Yeah, of course. He said thanks.
Odd, I said slowly. I rang your office todaywanted you to take the call. Reception said Thompsons been off sick for a week. Tonsillitis.
He looked up. No guilt, no shame. Just cold, irritated calculation.
Claire, youre exhausting me. Are you spying now? I went to his *house*. Whats the issue?
There was no issue. Only the sticky, deliberate lie.
Days later, I cleaned the car. Under the seat, beneath the mat, something small: a cheap plastic rattle shaped like a duck. It couldnt belong to any of our friends kidswe hadnt driven anyone but each other in months.
I held the duck in my palm. Worn, clearly loved. And in that moment, I *knew*. Not with my mindwith my whole being.
My perfect, attentive husband was living another life. One with children.
Back in the flat, James was watching TV. Found this in the car, I said, holding out the rattle.
He looked at the duck, then at me. For the first time, his mask of calm cracked. Fear flickered across his face.
No idea what that is, he muttered.
I do, I said. Just tell mehow long?
Silence. His stare fixed on the wall. Worse than shouting. A confession.
Be honest, James. For once.
Four years, he spat. My sons four.
Four years. The number echoed in my skull. Not a fling. Not a mistake. A whole parallel life.
I sank into the chair opposite him. My legs had gone numb.
Her names Rebecca, he said, like he was reporting the weather. Met her at a conference in Manchester.
No apologies. Just facts. As if closing a quarterly report.
So you thought you could have two families? One here, one there?
Claire, its complicated, he rubbed his temples. You *said* you didnt want kids. We agreed. Your career came first.
A half-truth. Id said not yet. I wanted to establish my law firm first. Hed twisted it into absolute refusal.
So you outsourced it. Very businesslike. Found a woman whod say yes.
I didnt *plan* it, his voice turned defensive. And I didnt abandon anyone. I provided for both of you. You. Her. My son.
I looked around our living room. The bespoke furniture, the expensive abstract painting, the designer curtains. Now it all felt like a stage set. Bought with money that was supposed to be *ours*.
I should be *grateful*? That you provided while spending our money on another family?
*I* earned that money, Claire, he snapped. Plenty of it. You wanted for nothing.
There it was. The key word. *Pragmatist*. To him, this wasnt betrayalit was asset diversification. One woman for status and comfort. Another for legacy.
The worst part? He genuinely didnt see the problem.
Where do they live? My voice was detached.
Surrey. I bought them a flat.
Of course he had. Probably decorated the nursery while I waited for him to return from business trips.
I stood and walked to the bookshelf. Our wedding photo smiled back from a silver frame. Two happy idiots.
Show me a picture. Of your son.
James hesitated. Then pulled out his phone, tapped, and handed it to me.
A blond boy grinned from the screen, straddling a bike. He looked just like James at that age. Same smile. Same eyes.
The world shrank to the size of that screen. Here he was. Real. Alive. The boy my husband bought apple puree for. And rattles.
His names Oliver, James said quietly.
I handed the phone back. No storm inside mejust a frozen vacuum. As if all emotions had switched off.
I want you gone by morning, I said. Pack your things and go to them.
He stood. No remorse. Just annoyancelike a lucrative deal had fallen through.
Claire, dont be rash. Lets talk this through. Like adults.
We *have* talked, I said. You made your choice four years ago. You just forgot to mention it.
He didnt leave. In the morning, I found him in the kitchen, sipping coffee and scrolling through financial news on his tablet as if nothing had happened.
A notepad and pen lay beside his mug. He was ready to negotiate.
Morning, he said calmly. Ive thought it over. Your reaction was emotional, understandablebut we cant let emotions ruin ten years of building something.
I poured water silently. Overnight, the emptiness had hardened into something cold. A crystal.
I propose a civilised solution, he continued, jotting notes. We stay married. Ill phase things out with Rebeccaof course, Ill still support the boy financially. Its the mature approach.
He spoke of human lives like business ventures to be optimised or discontinued.
Ill also compensate you for the distress. Well holiday wherever you like. Buy you a new car. Consider it a bonus for the hassle.
That was the final straw. Not the betrayal. Not the lies. *This*. The offer to purchase my forgiveness.
To price my feelings in pounds. He didnt see a wifejust a business partner whod incurred losses.
Fine, James, I said, matching his tone. Lets be civilised. Like partners.
Relief flashed across his face. Hed won. The problem was managed.
I dressed, packed my work bag. He didnt even glance up, engrossed in his compensation spreadsheet.
In the lift, I dialled a number I hadnt used in years. From a life before James.
Hello? A familiar, slightly roughened voice.
Tom? Hi. Its Claire Whitmore. Remember me?
A pause.
Claire? Christ, of course I do. Its been years. Whats wrong?
Everything, I watched the passing floors. I need your help. As a solicitor. The best youve got.
We met in his office an hour later. Tom Rivers hadnt changed muchjust a few weathering lines that suited him. Hed always been Jamess opposite: sharp, sarcastic, but with old-school principles.
I laid it out coldly, like testimony. He listened, his gaze sharpening.
Right, he said when I finished. Classic corporate mindset. Emotions filed under overhead, conscience outsourced. Heres the plan. Joint assets?
Yes. Flat, car, accounts. Everything since we married.
Good, he nodded. First, we freeze his accounts. By lunch, every penny hes got will be locked. He cant move a thing.
It was a strike at the heart of his pragmatic universe. His control.
Youre sure? Tom studied me. This is war.
He wanted to act like partners, I shrugged. Im accepting his terms.
Outside, the sun shone. The world hadnt ended. It had just sharpened into focus.
I was no longer part of the set design. Id walked out mid-performance.
And for the first time in years, I could breathe.
—
*Three years later*
The flat is *mine* now. I tore down the heavy curtainsflooded the place with light. Replaced the investment art with vibrant watercolours from a street painter. The space breathes. So do I
