I was in the kitchen putting together a mushroom gratin Jamess favourite dish while the kids were already sound asleep. The house felt cosy, the air thick with the smell of herbs. My phone buzzed on the kitchen table.
A short message lit up the screen:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, but they turned my world upsidedown in an instant. Ten years of marriage collapsed in a heartbeat.
I stared at the screen until it went dark, then another notification popped up. I didnt even read it.
My hands were shaking as I slid the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two kids. A business wed built together or rather, one hed built while I put my own dreams on hold.
Hed once said, Honey, what matters now is that you support me. Youll have time for your projects later. I believed him.
When he got home late, as he had been doing a lot lately, I didnt ask any questions.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he said.
I watched him silently, his eyes fixed on his plate.
All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to more me or himself?
Everything okay? he asked, noticing my quiet.
Yeah, just tired, I replied with a smile, while inside everything was falling apart.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I couldnt sleep. With my eyes closed I replayed how we first met, how hed admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came marriage, pregnancy, a second pregnancy, and the business demanding more and more of his time.
You get it, right? The most important thing is that we get stable, hed say.
I understood. I ran the house, booked appointments, answered calls, and tucked my sketches away in a drawer for better days.
The next morning I started noticing little things Id missed before the way he carefully chose his shirt, how he spent ages fixing his hair, how hed glance away when a message popped up.
Dad, youll play with me tonight? our younger son, Oliver, begged, grabbing my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, Ive got an important meeting, I said.
I wondered if shed be wearing that blue dress the one I wore at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in the wardrobe, far too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Inside, one question burned why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter Emily said, hugging me gently.
Its fine, sweetheart. Im just a bit weary. This time I didnt buy my own excuse.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches out of the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects. I found a design for a childs bedroom Id drawn when I was expecting Emily bright, whimsical, with hanging swings and modular walls.
James had once shrugged, Make it simple. Its just a kids room.
When did my dreams become just?
My phone buzzed again. A text from him: Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and suddenly realised I couldnt keep going like this.
The next night, with the kids at Grandmas, I waited for him, a decision firm in my heart. He walked in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The words slipped out softly but cut the silence like a knife.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky, his hands trembling.
Claire, he muttered.
Just tell me the truth. I deserve to know, I insisted.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass. It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Nothing? I asked.
Its just you know, things have been cold between us for ages.
Cold?
I remembered everything:
Making him breakfast when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Skipping a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he asked.
When did it all become cold? I demanded.
When I stopped wearing nice dresses? he replied.
When I gave up my own dream for your company? I shot back.
He winced. Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife.
A housewife? I snapped. I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our kids. Thats what you call a housewife?
Sophie, listen he began, trying to take my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit the grind. We can start over.
But I was already looking at a stranger.
Whats the worst part? I asked.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve found someone else, I said. Its that you dont even understand what youve done.
Im going to be me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I picked up the kids, and then a new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I was finally myself again, and the uncertainty that used to scare me now felt wonderful.
Because the worst betrayal of all is betraying yourself.
