I was in the kitchen preparing supper. My husband, James, had asked for a seafood pasta. After a long day at the office, I stopped off at the local supermarket, picked up everything we needed, and cooked everything myself. James was a little late, but he came in clutching a bunch of red roses.
Blythe, look who’s home your weary husband! he shouted cheerfully as he crossed the threshold.
I laughed, took the flowers, and set them in a vase.
That evening, after wed finished eating and talked through the day’s little dramas, we settled onto the sofa, turned on a film, and relaxed.
James and I had been married for over ten years. The early passion had long settled into a comfortable warmth. We ran a modest family business together I dealt with suppliers, James found buyers and handled the finances. We lived in a nice flat in London, a real pictureperfect life. Children? Not yet on our radar; neither of us felt the urge, maybe when we were closer to forty.
A few weeks earlier I had rescued a stray kitten from the back alley a scrawny little grey one with a torn ear. James balked at the idea.
Whats this ragtag creature? Take it to a shelter. If you want a cat, get a pedigree Maine Coon theyre all the rage now or a sleek hairless breed. Dont bring home a junker.
But Id grown attached to the kitten, and soon the striped grey fellow, whom I named Milo, became my tailsome companion. James never warmed to him; the antipathy went both ways. James could give Milo a push or a shoving, and Milo would retaliate by leaping onto his trousers, shedding fur, or digging his claws into his sweater.
I’m getting rid of that cat. He’s ruining my clothes, James growled.
I tried to defend him: Dont toss my things about. Put them away in the wardrobe, will you? Milo doesnt like the mess.
The name sounds childish Milo, James muttered, his tone sour.
Milo stared back with his mysterious green eyes.
Thus began a yearlong silent war between husband and cat. Lately Milos mere presence irritated James so much that hed shout whenever he saw the cat, Whats he doing here? Hell cause trouble.
I tried to keep the peace: James, calm down. Hes just going about cat business. He isnt a menace, and hes not coming after you.
Hes driving me mad. Can you just give him away?
I wont. Hes mine.
Over the months Milo grew huge, sleek, and handsome.
One Saturday I was doing a thorough cleaning. James had gone on a Thursday business trip to Birmingham, saying hed be back by Sunday. I cleared the flat, dusted every surface, and even tackled the wardrobe where Milo liked to paw at something.
What are you fiddling with in there? Some toy? I asked, crouching next to him.
In a narrow gap I found a small folder. I pulled it out and saw receipts for hotel stays, shortterm holiday breaks, pricey jewellery, airline tickets, and even a car purchase agreement. The car belonged to a woman named Natalie, but the payments were in Jamess name.
I flipped through the papers; a few bore Jamess notes. He was in the habit of collecting receipts, later filing them through the company to siphon off cash. This was just another hidden stash.
My heart iced over as I stared at the documents. I wanted to crumple them, tear them up, yell for James to come home. I held back. Milo swished around, then leapt onto the folder.
You saw this, and you showed me, I whispered, a little sobbing.
Milo nuzzled my hand, purring a low, soothing tune. His calmness helped steady my nerves.
Alright, Milo, youre right. Think first, then act, I murmured, copying every receipt and paper.
That night I logged onto Facebook and began searching for the cars owner. I found a young woman posing proudly beside a brandnew red hatchback, with a caption reading gift from my love. There were no pictures of a partner, just her back and the car. I recognised Jamess build from the glimpse of his shoulders. It clicked James had a lover and was spending our joint money on her.
James returned on Sunday evening, as usual, bearing flowers.
Whats the point of meeting a tired husband? he bellowed as he entered.
My heads pounding, Ive got a cold, I replied, my eyes genuinely red.
He ate his dinner. I slipped away to the spare bedroom.
Should I call a doctor? he asked.
No need, Ill lie here. Ive already taken the meds, I answered.
James dozed off, leaving his phone on the kitchen counter. I picked it up, feeling the weight of years of trust. Id never once looked through his messages, but tonight I did. Texts, WhatsApp chats, everything confirmed my worst fears. Later, he sent his lover a flirty message: Cant wait to see you Tuesday.
On Monday I sent James off to work, telling him Id stay home sick. I gathered all the paperwork and walked straight to a solicitor.
He filed for divorce and a division of assets, a move he hadnt expected at all. He stormed over the next day, furious.
What have you done? Weve been together for years. Ive given you everything.
Ive fallen out of love, I said simply. See you in court, James.
I kept the affair silent. When the case came, we presented the receipts and the extravagant spending. James was caught off guard.
The judge asked, Did you really spend those sums on a mistress? Did you buy her a car?
Yes I spent it, James admitted, looking bewildered.
My solicitor secured a full split of the assets, plus compensation for half of the businesss value. He also reclaimed half of the money James had splashed on his lover, since it was family money. James didnt contest.
In the end, James kept the flat, I received a country cottage and a tidy sum of cash. The cars stayed where they were each kept their own. Before the divorce I had already moved some suppliers to a new company, and I relaunched the business, taking on both sales and finance myself. Its safer now. Milo and I have all the time we need, and the venture is thriving.
James remains angry, the exwife turned competitor. His finances have shrunk, and his new fling offers no real comfort. He goes on dates, then drifts back to an empty flat. And that, in a nutshell, is how things turned out for us.
