Im standing in the kitchen, the oven humming as I ladle the mushroom gratin Jamess favourite dish into a casserole. The children are already tucked in, and the house smells of rosemary and thyme, a comforting warmth that seems to wrap around every corner. My phone buzzes on the kitchen table.
The screen lights up with a brief message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they upended my world in an instant. Ten years of marriage collapsed in a heartbeat.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark, then another notification pops up. I dont read it.
My hands shake as I slide the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we built together or rather, one he built while I sacrificed my own ambitions.
Darling, the most important thing right now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, hed said.
I believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing of late, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he muttered, eyes fixed on his plate.
He noticed my silence.
Are you okay? he asked.
Fine, just tired, I replied, forcing a smile. Inside, everything was crumbling.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I could not sleep. With my eyes shut, I replayed our first meeting the way he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
Then came marriage, pregnancy, a second pregnancy, and a business that demanded more and more of my time.
You understand, dont you? The most important thing is that we get stable, he would say.
I understood. I ran the household, booked appointments, answered calls, and tucked my sketches away in a drawer for better days.
The next morning I began to notice little things Id missed before: how carefully he chose his shirt, how long he preened his hair, how his gaze flicked away when he read messages.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Thomas, begged, clutching my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, I have an important meeting, James said.
An important meeting. I wondered would she be wearing a blue dress? The same one I wore at the start of our relationship, now gathering dust in my wardrobe, too pretty for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. But inside one question burned why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, youre sad, my daughter, Grace, whispered, hugging me tightly.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit tired, I answered, no longer believing my own excuse.
We need to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches from the drawer ideas and projects Id abandoned. I found a drawing of a childrens bedroom Id made when I was pregnant with Eleanor, a colourful room with hanging swings and modular walls.
James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a childrens room.
It was just?
When did my dreams become just?
My phone buzzed again. A message from him: Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and suddenly realised I could not keep living like this.
The following night, with the kids at their grandmothers, I waited for him, a clear decision steady in my heart.
He walked in, coat still on, and I asked, Who is she?
The question that had been gnawing at me slipped out softly, yet cut the silence like a knife.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky. His hands trembled.
Claire, he muttered.
Just tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I demanded.
He sat opposite me, fidgeting with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Anything?
Its just that you see, between us everything has been cold for a long time.
Cold?
I remembered everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters to sort his paperwork.
Giving up a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he asked.
When did it become cold? I pressed again.
When I stopped wearing pretty dresses? he answered.
When I sacrificed my own dream for your company? I shot back.
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife.
A housewife?
I did your accounts, organised your meetings, raised our kids. Is that what you call a housewife?! I shouted.
Sophie, listen to me he tried, reaching for my hand. (His slip of my name made my throat tighten.)
We can fix this. Ill quit. We can start over.
But I was already looking at a stranger.
You know whats worst? I said.
He stayed silent.
Its not that youve met another woman.
Its that you dont even understand what youve done.
I will be me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I fetched the children, and then a new chapter began.
I am no longer anyones shadow. I am myself again, and the uncertainty that once terrified me now feels wonderfully thrilling.
After all, the worst betrayal is betraying yourself.
