I was pulling the mushroom gratin out of the oven Harrys favourite dish while the kids were already snoring, and the house smelled like a cosy kitchen warmed by spices. My phone buzzed on the countertop.
The screen lit up with a short message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and cream.
Just a few words, but they knocked my world on its axis. Ten years of marriage collapsed in an instant.
I stared at the screen until it went dark. A heartbeat later another notification popped up. I didnt read it.
My hands shook as I slid the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business wed built together or rather, one hed built while I was the one giving everything up.
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 murmured.
I watched him in silence, his eyes glued to his plate.
All I could think of was one question:
Who is he lying to the most me or himself?
You alright? he asked, noticing my quiet.
Fine, just tired, I replied with a smile.
Inside, everything was crumbling.
When did I stop existing for myself?
That night I lay awake, eyes shut, replaying how wed met the way he admired my sketches, his promises of a bright future.
And then marriage. Pregnancy. A second pregnancy. The business demanding more and more of my time.
You get it, dont you? The priority is getting stable, hed say.
I got it. 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 details I’d missed before: the way he chose his shirts with care, how he spent ages fixing his hair, how his gaze flicked away when he read messages.
Dad, youre playing with me tonight? our younger son, Harry, asked, tugging at my sleeve.
Sorry, champ, Ive got an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wondered whether shed be wearing a blue dress.
The same dress Id worn at the start of our relationship now gathering dust in the closet, far too fancy for grocery runs or PTA meetings.
I kept doing everything as before: making breakfast, checking homework, handling the endless todos. But inside me a single question burned why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, youre sad, my daughter Poppy whispered, hugging me tightly.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit exhausted, I answered, no longer buying 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 the design for a nursery Id drawn when I was pregnant with Poppy: bright colours, hanging swings, modular walls.
And James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a nursery.
Just what?
When had 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 cant keep going like this.
The next night, with the kids at their grandparents, I waited for him, a clear decision humming in my chest.
When he walked in, coat still on, I asked, Who is she?
The question that had been smouldering finally cut through the silence like a knife.
James froze, then poured himself a whisky. His hands trembled.
Claire he started.
Just tell me the truth. I have a right to know, I said, my voice steady.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It means nothing, he said.
Nothing?
Its just that you know, things have been cold between us for ages.
Cold?
I recalled 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 did I asked.
When what? he replied.
When did it all go cold?
When I stopped wearing pretty dresses?
When I gave up my dream for your company?
He winced.
Dont dramatise it. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did the bookkeeping, organised your meetings, raised our kids. Is that what you call a housewife?! I snapped.
Sophie I mean, Emma listen
He reached for my hand.
We can sort this out. Ill quit. We can start again.
But I was already looking at a stranger.
You know whats the worst part? I said.
He fell silent.
Its not that youve met someone else. Its that you cant even see what youve done.
I was going to be me again.
That night, for the first time in years, I opened my sketchbook. The next morning I fetched the kids, and then
A new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I was myself again, and the uncertainty that once terrified me now felt wonderfully exhilarating.
After all, the biggest betrayal is betraying yourself.
