11October2025
Ive always thought my wife, Helen, was a force of nature a whirlwind of errands, shouting at the kids, juggling a mountain of paperwork, and never letting a stitch remain unironed. Shes the sort of woman who darts from one meeting to the next in a pair of wellworn jeans and a sweater, as if she were trying to outrun time itself. Her wardrobe is a battlefield: a dress here, a blouse there, each requiring the patience of a saint to press. Thankfully our new dryer smooths the creases so well that the iron rarely sees the light of day.
Then theres the other woman Felicity. She could have been plucked straight from a fashion magazine: flawless posture, long legs, glossy hair, striking eyes. She moves with a regal calm that makes the world seem to pause. I could have chosen her for myself if I were a man.
I first saw her by accident on a business trip to a suburb of Manchester. I ducked into the nearest café for a quick bite after a long morning of meetings. The place was packed, but a corner table was free. I sat, flipped through the menu, and looked up. It wasnt a trick of the light I recognised my husbands silhouette from behind, and next to him sat Felicity, her fingers lightly cradled in his hand, his thumb gently grazing her knuckles. A brief, almost vulgar feeling sparked in me: Your fingers smell of incense, I thought, dismissing it as a fleeting lustful impulse. Yet she was undeniably attractive, objectively so.
Felicity ordered soup and a salad, ate without tasting, and lingered, waiting for us to leave. She seemed afraid to be seen, but James was oblivious to anything beyond his own world at that moment. The scene hung over me like the lingering heat after a burn I could feel the sting, but the pain was hollow, empty.
James returned home on schedule, his mood as steady as ever. Hes a quintessential sanguine: measured, reliable, with a dry sense of humour that would have been priceless in that café. I imagined asking him, Hows your lover? in a deadpan tone, watching beads of sweat gather on his brow, his cheeks reddening as he tried to keep his composure. Then Id have followed with, What now? Should the children meet their new stepmum? Where do you see me as a tenant or a guest? But I never said any of that. He simply pulled me into bed, held me close, and fell asleep almost immediately.
Perhaps we havent been intimate lately, I thought, curling onto my side of the mattress and chuckling to myself. It felt as if we were still in the prelude the flirtation, the synchronized breathing, the unspoken thoughts. He is, in a way, a secret lover, a man who keeps his feelings under lock and key, never letting a muscle twitch outwardly.
That night I tossed and turned, dreaming of bright flowers and strangers in scarlet dresses. I woke with a heavy head, moved slowly through the flat, and got the kids ready for school. All the while I wondered what a woman in my shoes would do when she discovers her husbands affair. Google offered no answers; my own mind was a blank.
Do I try to move on? I already am, in the same routine: a punctual husband arriving home after work, shirt free of perfume, children bounding about, Sunday trips to the cinema. No noticeable shift in behavior, sex twice a week, occasionally a third if Im attentive enough.
I decided to verify what I had seen. I called James at lunch; he didnt answer. I hailed a black cab and drove back to that same café, inventing a story for the driver about a parcel we were waiting for. Jamess car was parked across the street. He and Felicity stepped out together, got into his vehicle, and drove off.
I walked out of the cab, asked for a glass of water, pretended to make a call, and shouted into the empty line, To hell with you and your parcel! Im off to work! I didnt care what the driver thought of me.
The knowledge of a lover can upend a life, but it also forces a decision. Divorce? Perhaps. Or endurance? Why endure if it merely drags you down? I recalled a neighbor couple whose husbands affair was uncovered. He denied everything until presented with messages that could not be erased. He finally admitted, saying, Id never lie; if Ive done wrong, Ill own up, and if family matters to you, Ill leave or provide. Id once been proud of his honesty.
Its easier to solve anothers drama from a distance, especially when you bear no responsibility. When youre caught in the middle, courage falters in an instant.
I approached their table the next day, sat on the free chair, and watched Felicitys eyes widen. James froze, then slumped into his seat. Silence stretched between us. Felicity seemed to recognise me instantly, perhaps even expected me. James began to speak, but I lifted a hand and said, Thats not what I thought, is it? Nothing about this is shocking; such things happen. Now consider how to untangle this children, a shared flat, ageing parents. Youre both clever; youll manage. I rose calmly, my freshly pressed dress feeling oddly appropriate after months of neglect.
I left the café feeling strangely lighter. It is a reminder that, no matter how tangled the web, the truth remains a compass.
Lesson: honesty may hurt, but it is the only path that keeps you from losing yourself entirely.
