**Diary Entry**
I cant shake this dreadful feeling. After ten years of marriage, Im convinced something isnt right. Its like a splinter under my skinsmall, but impossible to ignore. Simon swears theres no one else. What are you on about? he laughed when I asked. Weve been married a decade! Why would I need anyone else? He sounded so sincere, his smile unbroken, his eyes steady. But my gut refuses to settle.
Ive never been one to leave things to chance, so I dug deeper. The internet suggested checking his phoneno password, as he insists he has nothing to hide. Nothing unusual, just a few harmless chats with old schoolmates. Nothing worth fretting over.
Still, every time hes late from work, my chest tightens. My best mate, Emily, tells me Im being ridiculous. Youre imagining things! Simon adores youhed never even look at another woman! But I cant shake the thought. Sharing him? Unthinkable.
Once, I even followed himburst into his office to see if he was really working. He was furious, said Id embarrassed him in front of his colleagues. I apologised for days. He forgave quickly, but the unease lingered.
By all appearances, we had it alla lovely home in Surrey, two sweet boys, financial comfort. But I kept searching for trouble. They say if you look hard enough, youll find it. And yet, for months, I found nothing. No lipstick stains, no strange perfumes, no sudden changes in his routine.
Then, the truth fell into my handsliterally.
When our youngest started Year One, I decided to take driving lessons. After passing my test, Simonproud as anythingbought me a little Fiat. Perfect for my frame, easy to park. He never admitted it, but I suspect he only got it so I wouldnt ask him to drive his Audi. You need more experience first, hed say.
One frosty Sunday, I woke early, wanting to surprise everyone with a chicken-and-aubergine pietheir favourite. But wed run out of flour. The Fiat wouldnt start, so I quietly took Simons keys, thinking hed never notice a quick trip to Tesco.
As the car warmed up, I reached into the glovebox for a cloth to wipe the windows. Something clattered to the floora phone. Not Simons. My stomach twisted. Without a lock, it lit up with a message from a Sophie:
*Missing you, darling! Come over soonI cant wait!*
My hands trembled. The messages spanned months. Every day, Simon left work at five but didnt come home until seven. Those missing hours? Spent with her. The things he wrote to herwords Id never heard from him.
The photos showed a woman in her forties. What did she have that I didnt?
Just as I was about to storm back inside, Simon appearedcoatless, furious. Who said you could take my car?
Rage boiled over. I slammed into reverse, hitting the fence behind me. The crunch was oddly satisfying. I flung the Audi keys into a snowbank and screamed, Go to her, then! See how much she wants you without your house and car!
The boys were awake by the time I got inside. Minutes later, Simon tried the door. I locked it. Go to her! Never come back!
He leftslippers, dressing gown, and allstraight to Sophies. But when she opened the door, a mans voice called from inside, Hurry up, love! Turns out Sophie had another bloke for weekends.
Rejected, Simon trudged to his mums. Margaret took one look at him and sighed. Dont worry, son, she soothed. Youre only thirty-fiveyoull find love again.
Now hes living with her, starting overuntil the alimony papers arrived. Then he realised freedom isnt free. At least his mum hasnt abandoned him. Small mercies.
