Emily learns that her husband, James, keeps a second family in the next town.
What? Emilys voice is low, but steel rings in it. James, what is this?
James leans against the hood of a jetblack, glossy new car, fresh off the dealers lot. The scent of expensive leather and plastic drifts up to their thirdfloor kitchen window.
Surprise! James spreads his arms as if hes embracing the whole world. A gift. For us. For the anniversary. Well, almost I thought Id get ahead of it. Like it?
Emily walks down the stairs slowly. She cant recall how she got there, how she opened the heavy frontdoor. Her legs move on their own while a single thought hammers her mind, cold and sharp as a needle: money. The money they have been tucking away for almost five years, penny by penny, for the downpayment on a mortgage for Lucy, their daughter, so the girl will have a place of her own when she goes to university.
James, are you out of your mind? she says, pressing her hand to the icy metal of the hood. The car looks fierce, beautiful, alien. We promised each other. That money is untouchable.
Jamess smile fades a little. Come on, Emily, what are you starting? Ill earn more now I’m the department head, my salarys bigger. And driving our old clunker is just embarrassing. Look at this beauty!
He throws open the passenger door. The interior, trimmed in light leather, beckons with comfort and luxury. For a heartbeat Emily wants to sit inside, breathe the scent of a new life, but she forces herself back.
Embarrassing? You were embarrassed to drive the car thats served us faithfully for ten years? Im not ashamed to look my daughter in the eye when she asks why we cant help her buy a flat.
Lucy still has two years before university, James waves off. Well keep saving. Dont be a killjoy, be happy. Lets take it for a spin! Test the purchase.
He tries to hug her, but Emily steps away. Irritation flickers in his eyes; he isnt used to his grand gestures meeting such a cold wall.
Im not going anywhere, she snaps. Dinner isnt ready yet.
She turns back toward the hallway, feeling his puzzled, angry stare on her back. Inside the flat, while she stirs soup, she watches James still by the car. He kicks the tire in frustration, slides into the drivers seat and roars away. Where he goes to test the car alone doesnt matter to her. The bitterness in her chest is so sharp it makes her want to cry, yet no tears comeonly a chilling emptiness. Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of joint decisions, of hashing out every big expense and trip. Now he just drops this fact on her as if her opinion never existed.
He returns late, past midnight, quiet and a little remorseful, placing a bag of her favourite biscuits on the kitchen table.
Emily, Im sorry. I got carried away. But understand, its for you too. So you can travel in comfort.
I cant drive, James. I never intended to learn.
Youll learn! Ill teach you myself, he says, sitting beside her, taking her hand. Dont be angry. A car is just a thing. Were a family. The important thing is were together.
Emily sighs. Maybe hes right. Maybe shes overreacting. Money is material, and hes there, trying to make amends. She offers a weak smile, and James brightens, launching into an enthusiastic monologue about the engines power, the clever navigation system, the heated seats. Emily nods halfheartedly, believing she should be the patient, forgiving wife.
The next day, Saturday, James insists on a family outing out of town. Lucy, their seventeenyearold, squeals with delight as she explores the buttons and levers in the new cabin. Emily sits in the front seat, forcing a cheerful face. The car glides smoothly, almost silently. Past the cottage estates, woods, and fields, they stop by a picturesque lake for a picnic. James is jovial and attentive, constantly refilling Emilys tea from a thermos and wrapping her in a blanket. Emily begins to thaw, almost convinced that everything is okay again.
That evening, when they get home and James parks the car, Emily decides to tidy the interiorshake out the mats, clear away cookie crumbs. She opens the glove compartment for a pack of wet wipes and feels something hard behind an old user manual. Its a receipt, a typical shop receipt for childrens toys. She unfolds it, eyes scanning the lines, and freezes.
Space Station set £70, it reads.
Fairy charm bracelet £30.
The date is a week old. That day James was on a business trip to a nearby regional centre about 75 miles away, claiming a new major project needed his personal oversight. Emily frowns. Who would he be buying such pricey toys for? The set looks like its for a tenyearold boy; the bracelet for a girlor perhaps a woman. None of his colleagues have children his age. Maybe its a gift for a bosss son? Why spend so much? And why keep it secret?
She slips the receipt into her cardigan pocket. Her heart pounds with an unpleasant rhythm. Something about it feels false, just like the whole car episodean abrupt, unapproved decision.
That night she lies awake beside her peacefully sleeping husband, staring at the ceiling, replaying the past few years. His trips have become more frequent. He used to call every evening, detailing his day. Now he sends brief texts: All good, tired, going to bed. She chalks it up to his new role, to stress. But what if its something else?
In the morning, while James showers, she finally does something she has never done in twenty years. She grabs his phone. The password is Lucys birthday. She scrolls quickly through contactsnothing suspiciousjust bosses, colleagues, friendsexcept one: Mark Thompson, Plumber. Emily wonders why James would have a plumber from another town in his contacts. She opens the conversation and feels a cold shiver.
The messages are short, businesslike, yet something cuts her.
Mark, were the pipes delivered? James writes.
Yes, everythings in place. Kirill is thrilled, working on it for two days now, comes the reply.
Who is Kirill? The plumbers son?
Another text from James: Hows the weather? Not cold yet?
Reply: Sunny here. I miss you a lot.
Sunny. James used to call Emily sunshine in the early years of their romance, and he used to call Lucy that too when she was little. Then he stopped, switching to Emily and daughter. In this chat the word appears warm and alive. Emily feels nausea rise.
She scrolls further. Will you be back Saturday? Kirills swimming competition. Ill try to make it. Pick up a honey cake on the way, my favourite.
Its not a plumber at all. Its a woman, and she has a son named Kirill. James is buying cakes, attending competitions, buying expensive toys.
Emily places the phone back just as James steps out of the bathroom. His hand trembles slightly.
Whats wrong with you? You look pale, he says, wiping his hair with a towel.
My head hurts, she lies. Probably the pressure.
The whole day she drifts like in a fog, mechanically preparing lunch, talking to Lucy, answering Jamess questions. In her mind one question repeats: who is this woman calling herself Mark Thompson and asking for a honey cake? How long has this been going on?
She devises a plan. On Monday she calls her workplace and says shes ill. Then she rings her sister, who lives in that regional centre.
Hey, Len, Im coming today for a few hours. Somethings come up, she tells her.
Sure, come over! Everything okay? her sister asks, concerned.
No, everythings fine. Just business, Emily replies.
She gets into the new, hated car. The steering feels foreign, but James taught her to drive a few years back, even though she never liked being behind the wheel. The navigation system, which he bragged about, still holds a history of trips: Home, Work, and several addresses in the neighboring town. One address appears most often: Green Street, number 15, a typical council estate.
The drive takes ninety minutes. Emily watches nothing but the road, unsure what shell do when she arrives. She wont knock? She wont cause a scene? She just wants to see.
She turns onto Green Street. A quiet, leafy courtyard with a ninestorey block greets her. She parks the car around the corner, out of sight from the windows. Number 15, entrance 2. She sits on a bench opposite, puts on dark sunglasses, and waits.
An hour passes, then another. Residents with prams, retirees, hurried teenagers drift past. Emily feels foolish. What is she doing? Why waste time spying? Maybe shes making a mistake. Maybe there really is someone important to James there.
Then the entrance opens. James steps out, wearing jeans and a plain Tshirt, not his usual suit. He laughs, talking to a woman standing beside hima pretty blonde, about his age. In her arms she cradles a lighthaired boy of about ten, smiling at James.
They stroll slowly to the playground. James lifts the boy onto his shoulders, twirling him. The child bursts into laughter. The three of them sit on the swings. The woman smooths her hair, and James looks at her with a tenderness Emily hasnt seen in years. They look like a normal, happy family on a weekday outing.
Emily cant breathe. The air feels thin. She pulls out her phone and, without knowing why, snaps a picture. The three on the swing are blurry from her shaking hand, but unmistakablea piece of proof, evidence of the life she thought was hers.
She cant recall how she gets back to the car. The world beyond the windshield turns into a smeared spot. She collapses onto the sofa at home, staring at a single point on the wall. The twentyyear house she built feels like a cardboard set. Her love, her loyalty, her whole lifeeverything turns out to be a lie.
James returns at his usual time, cheerful, handing Lucy a chocolate bar and planting a kiss on Emilys cheek.
How are you, love? Feeling better? he asks, walking into the kitchen.
Emily hands him the phone, the photo still open.
He looks, his smile draining away. His face goes pale. He stays silent for a few seconds, eyes flicking between the screen and her.
This isnt what you think, he finally manages.
What do you think, James? Emilys voice is calm, almost artificial. I think you have a second family. I think you have a son. I think youve lied to me for years. Am I wrong?
Emily, its complicated.
Complicated? she smirks. Complicated is raising a child in the nineties on one salary. Complicated is caring for a sick mother and juggling hospital trips. This, James, isnt complicated. Its vile.
Lucy wanders in.
Mum, dad, whats happening? You look weird
Go to your room, honey, Emily says, keeping her voice steady. Were talking.
James sits, looking older, slumped.
I didnt mean to hurt you.
Didnt mean to? Emily repeats. You bought a car with money we saved for our daughters future, just to drive another woman and another child around! You didnt just hurt me, Jamesyou killed me. Now I want one answer. How long?
He stays silent, head bowed.
James!
Twelve, he whispers.
Twelve years. Lucy was five then. He started another family while their daughter was still a baby. Emily closes her eyes. Memories flashher with little Lucy in the park, him pushing her on a swing, the sea where he taught her to swim. Somewhere else, in another town, another boy, another woman. He was pushing them too.
I met Sarah on a project site. Shes an engineer. Things just rolled. I didnt plan it, I swear. Then she said she was pregnant. I couldnt leave her.
Could you leave me? Could you leave Lucy?
I never left you! I love you! I love them too He looks at her, eyes brimming with tears. Emily, I dont know how this happened. I got tangled.
Leave, she says softly.
Where? Where am I supposed to go?
Anywhere, she nods toward the door. Where it isnt messy. Where theyre waiting and love you. Pack your things.
Emily, lets talk. Dont decide in a rush. We can
Weve said everything, James. Go.
He leaves an hour later, gathering a small bag of essentials. At the doorway he tries to say something, but Emily just turns away. When the door shuts, she walks to the window. He climbs into his shiny new car and drives away, probably back to Green Street.
Lucy walks in, eyes red from crying.
Mum, did Dad go forever?
Emily pulls her into a tight hug, her arms hurting from the strain.
I dont know, love. I dont know anything.
They sit together, embraced, the quiet apartment echoing around them. Outside, night falls. Emily watches the dark courtyard; the black car is gone, leaving an emptier void. At fortyfive, with a daughter now at university age and a shattered life, she doesnt know what to do next. Yet for the first time in years she feels not pain or rage, but a strange, cold calm. One chapter ends, and she must begin writing a new onealone.
