**Diary Entry 10th March**
I cant shake this feelingsomethings off. Ten years of marriage, and yet, Im convinced Peters hiding something. Call it intuition, but I *know*. I tried confronting him outright yesterday.
*”Are you having an affair?”*
He laughedactually laughedbefore saying, *”What? Weve been married ten years! Why would I need someone else? Youre more than enough!”*
He sounded genuine. No faltering smile, no shifty eyes. But my gut wont quiet down.
Ive never been one to leave things to chance, so I took matters into my own hands. After scouring the internet for advice, I checked his phonenothing suspicious, just harmless banter with a few old schoolmates. No password, no hidden folders. Practically a saint, or so it seemed.
My friend Emily insists Im paranoid. *”Peter adores you. Youre sabotaging your own marriage!”* But I cant ignore the dread pooling in my stomach every time hes late from work.
Last week, I drove to his office unannounced, just to *see*. He was furious*”Youre embarrassing me in front of my colleagues!”*and I spent the evening apologising. He forgave quickly, but the unease lingered.
On paper, our lifes perfect. A house in Surrey, two children, financial stability. Yet here I am, inventing problems where there shouldnt be. Or so I thought.
The truth found me by accident.
This morning, I woke early to bake a chicken and aubergine piea family favourite. No flour. Freezing outside, but Ive grown confident driving in winter. My little Fiat wouldnt start, though, so I quietly took Peters Audi keys instead. Just a quick triphed never know.
While defrosting the windscreen, I reached into the glovebox for a cloth and knocked something loose. A phonenot his. My stomach lurched. No passcode. The first message I saw was from a *Jessica*:
*”Darling, I miss you terribly! Come over soonIll be waiting!”*
I scrolled further. Pages of messages. Turns out, Peter leaves work at 5 but doesnt come home till 7. Every. Single. Day.
*An hour with Jessica first.*
The photos showed a woman in her fortiespretty, but ordinary. Why *her*? Why *anyone*?
I was still gripping the phone when Peter strode out of the houseprobably to send *Jessica* another message while I was “at the shops.”
His face darkened when he saw me in his car. *”Who said you could take it?”*
Something snapped. I buckled up, reversedhardand rammed the fence. The crunch was *satisfying*.
I threw his keys into a snowbank and spat, *”Go to her, then! Lets see how much she wants you without your house and car!”*
The boys were awake when I stormed in. Confused, but unharmed. Peter tried to follow, but I bolted the door. *”Forget the way back!”* I shouted.
He left in slippers and a coat, trudging to Jessicas. Thought shed take him in.
She diduntil a mans voice called from inside, *”Love, are you coming back?”*
Turns out, Jessica only saw Peter on *weekdays*. Weekends were for someone else.
He ended up on his mothers doorstep in Croydon. Margaret took him in, clucked sympathetically, and said, *”Dont worry, darling. Youre only thirty-five! Plenty of time to find real love.”*
Now hes stuck there, “starting over”until the alimony papers arrive.
Funny, isnt it? The one time I *wasnt* overthinking, the truth hit me like a lorry.
Eleanor Whitmore
