Im pulling together dinner a mushroom gratin, Marks favourite dish. The children are already asleep, and the house is warm, filled with the scent of herbs and spices. My phone buzzes on the kitchen bench.
The screen lights up with a short text:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they turn my world upsidedown in an instant. Ten years of marriage collapse in a heartbeat.
I stare at the phone until the display goes dark. A moment later another notification pops up, but I dont read it.
My hands shake as I slide the gratin into the oven. Ten years. Two kids. A business we built together or rather, one he built while I put my own ambitions on hold.
Darling, the most important thing right now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, he says.
I believed him.
When he comes home late, as he has been doing these days, I dont ask any questions.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he apologises.
I watch him silently, his gaze fixed on his plate.
And all I can think of is one question:
Who is he lying to the most me or himself?
Are you okay? he notices my quiet.
Yes, just tired, I reply, forcing a smile.
Inside, everything is crumbling.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I cant sleep. With my eyes shut, I drift back to the way we met how he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
And then marriage. Pregnancy. A second pregnancy. A company that demands more and more of his time.
You get it, dont you? The most important thing is that we get stable, he says.
I get it. I run the house, schedule appointments, answer calls. My sketches end up tucked away in a drawer for better days.
The next morning I start noticing details Id missed before: how carefully he chooses his shirt, how he spends ages fixing his hair, how his eyes flick away when he reads a message.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Harry, asks, clinging to my sleeve.
Sorry, mate, Ive got an important meeting, I tell him.
An important meeting I wonder if hell be wearing a blue dress the same one I wore at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in my wardrobe, too fancy for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I keep doing everything as before making breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet inside one question burns: why?
Who is she? How long has this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, says my daughter, Emily, giving me a gentle hug.
Everythings fine, love. Im just a bit weary, I answer, but this time I no longer buy my own excuse.
We need to talk.
That evening I pull my old sketches out of the drawer. So many ideas, so many projects I find the design for a childrens bedroom I drew when I was pregnant with Emily bright colours, hanging swings, modular walls.
Mark had once said, Make it simple. Its just a kids room. Its just
When did my dreams become just?
The phone buzzes again, a message from him:
Ill be home late tonight.
I stare at the screen and suddenly realise I cant keep going like this.
The next night, with the kids at their grandmothers, I wait for him with a clear decision in my heart.
He walks in, coat still on, and I ask,
Who is she?
The question that has been burning inside finally slips out, cutting the silence like a knife.
Mark freezes. He reaches for a whisky, his hands trembling.
Claire
Just tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I say, my voice steady.
He sits opposite me, fidgeting with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he mutters.
Nothing?
Its just that you see, things have been cold between us for a long time.
Cold?
I remember everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters sorting his paperwork.
Skipping a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I ask.
When what? he asks.
When did it all become cold? I press.
When I stopped wearing pretty dresses? he snaps.
When I gave up my dream for your company? I echo.
He winces.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he says.
A housewife?
Ive done your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our kids. Thats what being a housewife looks like?!
Sophie, listen he tries to take my hand.
We can sort this. Ill quit. We can start over, he offers.
But I already see a stranger sitting across from me.
You know whats worst? I say.
He stays silent.
Its not that youve met another woman, I continue. Its that you dont even understand what youve done.
Im going to be me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I open my sketchbook. The next morning I pick up the children and, from then on, a new chapter begins.
I am no longer someones shadow. I am myself again.
The uncertainty no longer scares me. On the contrary it feels wonderful.
Because the greatest betrayal of all is betraying yourself.
