Dear diary,
I checked my husbands location on the family tracking app after he claimed he was out fishing, and the map showed him standing at the doors of the citys St.Marys Maternity Hospital.
This is the first time Ive seen a discrepancy of thirty thousand pounds between the invoice and the original estimate, I said in a frosty tone as I spoke to the site foreman on the phone from yet another job site. We agreed on the Italian porcelain, item 712. What have you supplied? A Chinese copy?
MrsHarper, whos going to sort that out? the foreman cooed, trying too hard to sound helpful. It looks identical, half the cost! Ill give you half a kickback and no one will ever know.
Ill be the one who knows, I snapped. Replace the tiles by tomorrow lunch, or well settle this in court. Ill guarantee you lose not only this contract but your licence as well.
I slammed the phone down before he could answer. My hands trembled with anger. It always happened the same waypouring my heart into the work, sleepless nights sketching every centimetre of a future interior, only for a slicktalking contractor to try to cheat me, treating me like a fool. A designer needed nerves of steel and a will of iron; I had both in abundance. After twenty years in the trade I had learned to defend my projects and put arrogant subcontractors in their place.
I got home late, exhausted and furious. At the doorstep waited James, cradling a steaming mug of my favourite peppermint tea.
Another battle? he asked with a gentle smile, taking my heavy bag of samples. Come in, my valour, dinners on the table.
James was my complete oppositecalm, homeoriented, unambitious. He worked as a design engineer for a modest firm, earned a modest yet steady salary, and seemed perfectly content in our cosy little world. He was the quiet island I retreated to after each days skirmish.
Wed been married for twentytwo years, raised a son who now studied in another city, and lived a steady life without dramatic upheavals. I built my career; James provided a reliable rearguard. He always met me with dinner, listened to my endless rants about the wrong shade of beige, and never blamed me for disappearing at work for days. Our friends called him the perfect husband, and I believed it too.
Lately, though, he seemed differentdistant, thoughtful. Hed taken up a new hobby: fishing. Every weekend he and his mate Tom would head off to the lakes.
James, is fishing really worth it in November? I asked, bewildered.
Whats the problem? he shrugged. The fish are biting now. Its peaceful, gives me time to think. You could use a break too.
I didnt argue. He needed his space. I packed him a thermos of hot tea, wrapped some sandwiches, and sent him off with a light heart.
That Saturday he left early. After finishing an urgent job, I decided to treat myself. I visited the hairdresser, then drove to the big supermarket for the weeks groceries, wandering the aisles and mentally mapping out meals. I thought Id call James to see if he needed anything on his return. I dialled his numberlong rings, then silence. Another try, same silence.
Usually he answers instantly. A faint worry stirred inside me. Had something happened? A flat tyre, a slip? I remembered wed installed a familytracking app on our phones half a year agojust in case we needed to keep an eye on our son at university. I rarely used it, thinking it intrusive, but now
The app displayed three pins: mine, our sons at his hall of residence, and James. My heart gave a nasty jolt. His pin wasnt out in the countryside or by a lake; it was here, in town, in a residential district. I zoomed in. The point hovered over a specific building on Flower Street, number7. I typed the address into the search bar. The screen flashed a name my brain refused to accept: St.Marys Maternity Hospital, Ward5.
A glitch, I told myself. A faulty app, a mislocationanything but the truth. Perhaps Tom had just become a grandfather and they were stopping by to congratulate? Yet why the fishing alibi?
I tried calling again. His phone was switched off. Panic hardened into cold, sticky fear. I abandoned my trolley in the middle of the aisle; a shop assistant scolded me, but I barely heard. I bolted to my car, my hands shaking so badly I struggled to insert the key into the ignition.
All the way there I repeated a mantra: Its a mistake. Its just a mistake. I imagined plausible explanationsa broken down car, a misrouted delivery, a friends emergencybut none could replace the image forming in my mind.
I parked opposite the hospital, a typical yellowbrick building with people on the steps holding flowers and balloons. Happy fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers gathered. I sat in the car, reluctant to step out. Fear of what I might see paralyzed me.
And then I saw him.
James emerged from the maternity ward, not in a fishing jacket but in the crisp white shirt I had ironed for him the night before. He was not alone. Walking beside him was a young woman, about twentyfive, her face tired yet smiling. In Jamess hands was a white envelope tied with a blue satin ribbon.
An elderly ladylikely the womans motherrushed over, embraced James, and whispered excitedly. He smiled the same gentle, slightly bewildered smile hed worn twentytwo years ago when he first brought home our newborn, little Danny, from the hospital.
I watched through my windshield as my world collapsed. No cars, no strangers, no cityjust that scene: my husband, another woman, and a baby. And me, the duped, betrayed fool, sitting in the car Id bought with my own money.
I didnt get out. I didnt make a scene. The steel resolve forged from years of battling foremen and clients whispered a different plan. No shouting, just actioncold, calculated, ruthless.
I turned the car around and drove home to the flat wed built together, a fortress Id thought was mine. Inside, everything bore my touch, bought with my earnings, and now each piece reminded me of him. I walked to the bookshelf where his prized collection of model ships 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.
Then I moved methodically, as if drafting a cost estimate. First, I called my solicitor.
ArthurMills, good afternoon. I need you to start divorce proceedings immediately and handle the division of assets.
Next, I opened my laptop, logged into the bank, and transferred every penny from our joint savings account into my personal accountpassword: our wedding date, an ironic twist. I moved the remnants of my salary card onto the same account, leaving exactly £10 in the joint account for sandwiches for the fisherman.
I packed his belongingscrumpled shirts, his fishing rods, his silly model shipsinto large trash bags, called a removal van, and sent the lot to his mothers address.
When the flat emptied and echoed, I sank onto the sofa and finally let the tears flow. Not from hurt, but from anger at myselfmy own blindness, my misplaced trust. How could someone as sharp and perceptive as I am at work be so foolish at home? How did I not see, not feel the lie?
That evening James called, his voice shaky and lost.
Emily, I dont get it I came home and my things are gone. The accounts are empty. What happened? Did someone rob us?
We werent robbed, James, I replied, my tone as steady as steel. I just redesigned the interior. I cleared out everything that didnt belong.
What do you mean didnt belong? Where are my things? Wheres the money?
Your things are with your mother. As for the money consider it child support for your newborn. I happened to be at the fifth maternity ward todayquite touching, really. Hope the fishing was fruitful.
A dead silence hung on the line for a few seconds.
Emily Ill explain everything! Its not what you think!
I dont need your explanations. I need nothing from you any longer. My solicitor will contact you about the divorce tomorrow. Dont look for me. Forget this number.
I hung up, blocked his number, then walked to the kitchen, pulled out a pad of drafting paper and my favourite pencils, and began to sketch. I was drawing the blueprint of my new lifewithout him, without lies, without compromises. This would be my best, most honest project. The colour palette would no longer be almost the same; it would be the exact shade of freedom.
Betrayal from someone close is always painful, yet sometimes it marks the moment when a genuine new life can begin. How would you have acted in my place? Would you have listened to explanations, or taken decisive action as I did? Your thoughts matter, so feel free to share.
