I checked my husbands location on the family tracker the one hed claimed hed left to go fishing and it showed him standing at the doors of the city maternity unit.
Why does the final invoice show thirtythousand pounds less than the original estimate? I asked, my voice icy, as I spoke to the site manager over the phone. We agreed on Italian porcelain, item 712. What have you installed? A Chinese copy?
Olivia, love, who can tell the difference? the foreman cooed, trying to sound helpful. It looks identical, save for the price. Im offering you half a kickback nobody will notice.
Ill notice, I snapped. And that will be enough. Have the tiles swapped by tomorrow noon, or well meet in court. I guarantee youll lose this contract and your licence.
I slammed the handset down, my hands trembling with anger. It always went like this: you pour your heart into a project, lose sleep over every square centimetre of a future interior, and then some opportunist shows up trying to squeeze you like a fool. A designer needs nerves of steel and a backbone of iron qualities I had in abundance after twenty years of fighting off the most brazen subcontractors.
I got home late, exhausted and furious. At the doorstep waited my husband, Simon Clarke, with a steaming mug of my favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he said with a gentle smile, taking the heavy bag of material samples from me. Come in, my valour, dinners on the table.
Simon was everything I was not calm, domestic, unambitious. He worked as a design engineer for a modest firm, earned a modest but steady salary, and seemed perfectly content in our cosy little world. He was the quiet island I retreated to after each daily skirmish.
Wed been married twentytwo years, raised a son who was now at university in another city, and our life had run like a wellkept garden no dramatic spikes, just steady growth. I built my career; Simon kept the hearth warm. He always met me with a meal, listened to my endless tirades about the wrong shade of beige, and never blamed me for disappearing into work for days. He was the ideal husband, or so friends said, and I believed it too.
Lately, though, hed changed. He grew thoughtful, distant, and took up a new hobby fishing. Every weekend he left with his mate Colin for the lakes.
Simon, is fishing really a thing in November? I asked, surprised.
Whats it to you? he shrugged. The fish are biting now. A bit of peace, a chance to think. You could use a break as well.
I didnt argue. He needed his space. I packed his thermos with hot tea, wrapped his sandwiches, and sent him off with a light heart.
That Saturday he left at dawn. I finished a urgent job, then treated myself to a haircut and a trip to the big supermarket. As I wandered the aisles planning the weeks meals, I tried calling Simon to see if he wanted anything for his return. The line rang, rang, then fell silent.
Usually he answered straight away. A knot of worry twisted inside me. Had something happened? A flat tyre? A slipped ice patch? I remembered the familytracking app wed installed six months ago a tiny intrusion wed tolerated only to keep an eye on our son. Id barely used it, but now I opened it.
Three dots appeared: mine, our sons dorm, and Simons. My heart knotted. His dot wasnt out of town or by the lake; it was in the city, in a residential area. I zoomed in. The pin sat at a specific address: Flower Street, number 7. I typed it into the search bar and the screen spat out: Maternity Hospital No5, Manchester.
A glitch, I muttered, hoping the app was wrong. Maybe Colins new grandchild? Why lie about fishing?
I tried calling again. The phone was switched off. Panic hardened into a cold, sticky dread. I tossed the shopping trolley into the middle of the aisle; a woman scolded me, but I barely heard. I fled the store, fumbled with the car keys, and finally managed to start the engine.
All the way there I repeated a mantra: Its a mistake. Just a mistake. I imagined plausible explanations a friend picking up a child, a broken car, anything but the worst scenario my mind could paint.
I parked opposite the maternity ward, a plain yellowbrick building buzzing with families, balloons, and fresh flowers. People laughed, grandparents cooed, fathers grinned. I sat in the car, too frightened to step out, fearing the sight that would shatter my meticulouslyordered world.
And then I saw him.
Simon emerged from the doors, not in his fishing jacket but in the crisp shirt Id ironed for him the night before. He wasnt alone. A young woman, about twentyfive, with a tired yet radiant face, walked beside him, cradling a newborn swaddled in a blue ribbontied envelope.
An elderly lady the girls mother, I guessed rushed over, hugging Simon, speaking jubilantly. He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile I hadnt seen in years, the one he used twentytwo years ago when he first brought home our son, little Harry, from the same ward.
Through the windshield I watched the scene, and the world fell away. No cars, no city, no familiar walls only this tableau: my husband, another woman, and a child that was not ours. And me, a duped, betrayed woman, sitting in the car Id bought with my own earnings.
I didnt get out. I didnt cause a scene. My steelforged resolve, tempered by years of dealing with demanding builders and demanding clients, whispered a different tactic: act, not scream. Cool, calculated, ruthless.
I turned the car around and drove home to the flat wed turned into my sanctuary. Inside, every piece of furniture, every picture, every curtain bore my touch and my money. I walked to the bookcase where Simons collection of model sailing ships, a hobby from his childhood, stood. I grabbed the largest frigate and hurled it to the floor. The wooden hull shattered into splinters, and a wave of relief washed over me.
Now came the methodical phase, just like drafting a bill of quantities. First, I phoned my solicitor.
Arthur Llewellyn, good afternoon. I need to start divorce proceedings immediately, and discuss asset division.
Then I opened my laptop, logged into the bank, and transferred every penny from our joint savings account to my personal account. The password was the date of our wedding a bitter irony. I moved the remainder of my salary there too, leaving exactly £10 in the joint account just enough for a sandwich for the fisherman.
Next, I packed Simons belongings his rumpled shirts, his fishing boots, his toy sailboats into large trash bags. I called a removal van and sent the lot to his mothers address, the only place I knew his family lived.
When the flat was empty and echoing, I sank onto the sofa and finally let the tears flow. Not from hurt, but from rage at myself at my own blindness, at my trust. How could a woman so sharp at work be such a fool at home? How had I missed the lie?
That evening Simon called, his voice jittery and scared.
Olivia, I dont understand I got home and all my things are gone. The accounts are empty. What happened? Were we robbed?
We werent robbed, Simon, I said, voice as cold as steel. Just a redesign. I cleared out the clutter.
What clutter? Where are my things? Wheres the money?
Your things are with your mother. The money consider it child support for your newborn. I happened to be at the fifth maternity unit today such a touching scene, congratulations. Hope the fishing went well.
Silence hung on the line for a few seconds.
Olivia Ill explain everything! Its not what you think!
I dont need your explanations. I need nothing from you. My solicitor will contact you tomorrow about the divorce. Dont look for me, and delete this number.
I hung up, blocked his number, and walked to the kitchen. From a cupboard I pulled out a stack of drafting paper, my favourite coloured pencils, and began to sketch. I was drawing the plan for a new life without him, without lies, without compromises. It would be my best project yet, the colour not almost right but the exact shade of freedom.
Betrayal from someone close is always painful, but sometimes that pain marks the point where a genuine new life can begin. How would you have acted in Olivias shoes? Would you have listened to his excuses, or taken the same decisive steps? Share your thoughts it matters. And if this story struck a chord, do subscribe and like.
