I just found out James has a second family in the next town over.
What? I heard my own voice, low but edged with steel. James, tell me whats going on.
He was standing by the entrance, shining like a freshly polished kettle, his hand propped on the hood of a deepblack, sleek new car. It was a brandnew model, still smelling of expensive leather and plastic, the scent drifting all the way up to our thirdfloor kitchen window.
Surprise! James spread his arms as if he were wrapping the whole world. A gift. For us. For our anniversary. Well, almost I thought Id get a head start. Like it?
I walked down the stairs slowly, almost not remembering how I got there, how the heavy front door opened. My legs moved on their own while a single, cold thought kept hammering in my head like a needle: the money. The exact money wed been tucking away for almost five years, penny by penny, for the downpayment on a mortgage for Emily, our daughter, so shed have a place of her own when she goes to university.
James, are you out of your mind? I stepped right up, my fingertips brushing the icy metal of the hood. The car looked fierce, beautiful, and completely foreign to us. We agreed. That cash is a safety net.
Megan, what are you on about? His smile faltered a bit. Well earn more. Im now department head, my salarys higher. And driving our old clunker is just plain embarrassing. Look at this beauty!
He swung the drivers door open. The interior, trimmed in light leather, beckoned with a promise of comfort and luxury. For a second I wanted to sit inside, breathe in that newlife scent, but I held back.
Embarrassed? You were ashamed to drive the car thats served us faithfully for ten years? And Im not ashamed to look my daughter in the eye when she asks why we cant help her get a flat.
Emilys still two years from university! James waved it off. Well save up. Dont be a killjoy, enjoy it. Lets take it for a spin! Wash the purchase.
He tried to hug me, but I stepped away. Irritation flashed in his eyes; he wasnt used to his grand gestures being met with such a cold wall.
Im not going anywhere, I cut him off. Dinner isnt ready yet.
I turned and headed back to the hallway, feeling his confused, angry stare on my back. Once inside, stirring the soup, I glanced out the window. James was still by the car, then, irritated, kicked the tyre, got in, revved the engine and roared off. Where he went to wash the purchase didnt matter to me. The bitterness in my chest was so sharp I wanted to cry, but there were no tears, just a hollow, icy emptiness. Twenty years of marriage. Twenty years wed made decisions together, discussed every big expense, every trip. And now he just dropped this on me like my opinion didnt exist.
He came back late, past midnight, quiet, a little remorseful, and placed a bag of my favourite scones on the kitchen table.
Megan, Im sorry. I got carried away. But you have to understand, its for you too. So you can travel comfortably.
I cant drive, James. I never planned to learn.
Youll learn! Ill teach you myself, he sat down, took my hand. Dont get worked up. A car is just a thing. Were a family. The important thing is were together.
I sighed. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was overreacting. Money is just money, and heres my husband, trying to make up for his mistake. I forced a weak smile, and Jamess face lit up as he launched into a enthusiastic spiel about the engines power, some clever navigation system, and the heated seats. I nodded halfheartedly, thinking a wise wife should endure, forgive, and support.
The next day, Saturday, James insisted on a family outing out of town. Emily, our seventeenyearold, squealed with excitement, poking at every button and lever in the new cabin. I sat in the front seat, trying to look content. The car glided smoothly, almost silent. Outside, we passed through countryside villages, woods, and fields. We stopped by a picturesque lake and had a picnic. James was cheerful and caring, constantly refilling my tea from a thermos and draping a blanket over me. I started to thaw, almost believing everything could be alright again.
That evening, after we got back, James went to park the car. I decided to tidy the interior shake out the mats, clear the crumbs from the biscuits. I opened the glove compartment to put in some wet wipes and my fingers brushed something hard tucked behind the user manual. It was a receipt. An ordinary shop receipt for a toy store. I unfolded it, skimmed the lines and froze.
Space Station building set £85.
Fairy charm bracelet £38.
Date: a week ago. That day James was on a work trip to the nearby county town, about twelve miles away, saying there was a new major project he had to oversee personally. I frowned. Who would he be buying such pricey toys for? The set was clearly for a boy aged tentwelve. The bracelet, for a girl. Or maybe for a woman? None of his colleagues had kids that age, as far as I knew. Could it be a gift for a bosss son? Why spend so much? And why hadnt he mentioned any of this?
I slipped the receipt into my coat pocket. My heart pounded with an unsettling rhythm. Something felt off, fake just like the whole car episode, a sudden decision made without me.
That night I lay awake beside my peacefully snoring husband, staring at the ceiling. His business trips had become more frequent. He used to call every evening, detail his day. Now he sent short texts: All good, tired, going to bed. I blamed it on his new role, the pressure. I told myself he was just exhausted. But what if it wasnt?
In the morning, while he was in the shower, I finally did something Id never done in twenty years. I grabbed his phone. The password was Emilys birthday. I scrolled through his contacts. Nothing suspicious bosses, colleagues, friends. Except one: Simon Fletcher Plumber. I wondered why James kept a plumber from another town in his phone. I opened the chat. My stomach dropped.
The messages were short, businesslike, but something in them made my skin crawl.
Simon, are the pipes delivered? James wrote.
Yes, all set. Kyles thrilled, has been assembling all day. Simon replied.
Whos Kyle? The plumbers son?
Another text: Hows the weather? Cold enough? James.
Sunny here. I miss you a lot. Simon.
Sunny. James used to call me sunshine in the early years of our romance, and he called Emily that too when she was little. Then he stopped. He started calling me just Megan, daughter. In this chat, the word felt alive, warm. Nausea rose in my throat.
I kept scrolling. Will you be back Saturday? Kyles swimming competition. James. Ill try to make it. Simon. Pick up a cake on the way, my favourite, honeyglazed. James.
That wasnt a plumber. It was a woman, and she had a son named Kyle. James was buying her cakes, driving to his competitions, splurging on expensive toys.
I put the phone back just before James stepped out of the shower. His eyes landed on me, noticing my pallor.
Whats wrong? You look pale, he said, drying his hair.
My head hurts, I lie. Probably the pressure.
The whole day I moved through a fog, mechanically making lunch, chatting with Emily, answering James. In my mind one question kept looping: who is this Simon Fletcher person, asking for honeyglazed cake? How long has this been going on?
I needed answers, not a fight. I wanted the picture to clear, because right now everything was blending like watercolor in rain.
The plan formed on its own. On Monday I called work and said I was sick. Then I rang my sister, who lives in that county town.
Hey, Len, Im dropping by today for a few hours. Something came up.
Whats wrong? she asked, concerned.
Nothing, just business, I replied.
I got into the new, loathed car. My hands on the wheel felt foreign. James had given me a few driving lessons years ago, though I never liked being behind the wheel. The nav system still had a history of trips: Home, Work, and a few addresses in the nearby town. One address kept popping up: Green Lane, 15. A typical suburban street, according to the map.
The drive took about ninety minutes. I drove without looking at anything, not knowing what Id do when I got there. Knock on the door? Cause a scene? No, that isnt me. I just needed to see.
Green Lane, number 15, flat 2. I parked at the back, out of sight from the windows. I sat on a bench opposite, slipped on dark sunglasses and waited.
An hour passed, then another. Residents with prams, retirees, teenagers hurrying about, all crossed the path. I felt ridiculous. What was I doing here? Was this a mistake? Maybe there really was someone important to James in that town?
Then the entrance opened. There he was James in jeans and a plain tee, not his usual suit. He was laughing, talking to a woman standing beside him. She was a pretty blonde, about my age, and holding the hand of a lighthaired boy, around ten, grinning at James.
They strolled slowly to a playground. James scooped the boy onto his shoulders, spun him around. The boys laugh echoed. They all sat on the swings together. The woman was fussing with her hair, and James looked at her with a tenderness I hadnt seen in years. They looked like a normal, happy family on an ordinary weekday.
I could barely breathe. I took out my phone, and without even knowing why, snapped a photo. The three of them on the swing, blurry from my shaking hand but unmistakable. Proof. Evidence of my shattered life.
I dont remember the drive back. The world through the windshield turned into a smeared blur. I collapsed on the couch at home, staring at a single point. The house Id built over twenty years felt like cardboard scenery. My love, my loyalty, my entire life all a lie.
James came home at his usual hour, cheerful, bringing Emily a chocolate bar, kissing me on the cheek.
How are you, love? Feeling better? he asked, heading to the kitchen.
I handed him my phone, the picture still open.
He looked at it, his smile draining away. He turned pale, stared at the screen, then at me.
This isnt what you think, he finally managed.
What do you think, James? My voice was oddly calm. I think you have a second family. I think you have a son. I think youve been lying to me for years. Am I wrong?
Megan, its its complicated.
Complicated? Raising a child in the nineties on one salary is complicated. Caring for a sick mother and juggling home and hospital is complicated. But this? Its not complicated. Its cruel.
Emily popped her head in.
Mum, dad, whats happening? You both look weird
Go to your room, love, I said, keeping my voice steady. Dad and I are talking.
James slumped into a chair, looking older, defeated.
I didnt want to hurt you.
Didnt want to? I repeated. You bought a car with the money we saved for Emilys future, just to drive another woman and another child around! You didnt just hurt me, you killed me. Now I only need one answer. How long?
He stayed silent, head bowed.
James!
Twelve, he whispered.
Twelve years. Emily was five then. He started another family when our daughter was still a baby. I closed my eyes. Scenes flashed: Emily and I on a swing in the park, James teaching her to swim, us on a beach, him holding her hand. And somewhere else, a different boy, a different woman, him doing the same.
I met Sasha Svetlana on a project site. Shes an engineer. Things just spiraled. I didnt plan it. Then she told me she was pregnant. I couldnt just walk away.
Could you walk away from me? From Emily?
I never left you! I love you! I love them too He looked at me with tears. Megan, I dont know how this happened. Im tangled.
Leave, I said softly.
What? Where am I going?
Anywhere, I nodded toward the door. Where its not so hard. Where theyre waiting and love you. Pack your things.
Can we talk? Not like this, in a rush.
Weve said everything, James. Go.
He left after an hour, a small bag in hand, trying to say something, but I just turned away. When the door shut, I walked to the window. He slipped into his shiny new car and drove off, probably back to Green Lane.
Emily walked in, eyes red from crying.
Mum, did Dad go forever?
I hugged her tight, bonedeep.
I dont know, sweetheart. I dont know anything.
We sat there, holding each other in the quiet of our empty flat. Outside, night fell. I looked at the dark courtyard. The black car that had symbolised his lies was gone, but the empty space it left felt even scarier. I was alone, fortyfive, with a universitygoing daughter and a shattered life. I had no idea what to do next, but for the first time in years I felt not pain or anger, but a strange, cold calm. One chapter ended. Now I have to start writing a new one, all by myself.
