I thought you were on a business trip,» I said, spotting my husband in a café with another woman.
I was never the paranoid type. I didnt check phones, launch hysterical interrogations, or sniff shirts for phantom traces of perfume. I built my life on trust, solid as bedrock. Blind, foolish trust.
So when I walked into that café on a Tuesday afternoon, arms weighed down with shopping bags, and saw him sitting thereJames, the man who had kissed me goodbye that very morning, mumbling something about urgent meetings in Manchestermy brain stuttered.
My first thought was hopeful, naive: *A colleague. His meeting mustve fallen through.*
The second, colder: *Strange He should be on a plane. Or already in Manchester.*
The third, like a gut punch, when I registered his hand resting over hers, his expressionthe same lost, adoring look that had once been mine: *Hes cheating.*
The world narrowed to their table. The clatter of cutlery, murmurs of conversation, hiss of the coffee machineall muted. My legs carried me forward on their own, stiff as ice.
«I thought you were in Manchester,» I said, my voice flat, alien.
James startled, his face twisting into panic. The womanpetite, blonde, in a soft jumperflinched, eyes darting between us.
«Emily» His voice cracked.
«Sit,» I snapped, surprising myself with the venom in my tone. The calm was a mask, frozen over a storm. «Business trip, was it?»
The silence thickened. The blonde stared at her lap.
«No,» he admitted, the word ugly between us. «Its not what you think»
«Right.» I turned to her. «Your name?»
«Chloe,» she whispered.
«Chloe, how old are you?» Deliberately formal.
«Twenty-three.»
Ten years younger. A lifetime apart. Her world was gym selfies and brunch dates; mine, mortgage payments and postponed baby plans.
«How long has this been going on?»
She glanced at James, who sat statue-still.
«Four months,» she said softly.
Four months. The number punched through me. The «business trips,» the hushed phone callssuddenly obvious.
«Get up,» I said to James. «Were leaving. Now.»
At home, I gave him two hours to pack. He begged to talk. I didnt listen.
A week later, Chloe and I met. She thought wed been separated. Hed spun her the same lies.
«He loved you,» she said, tearful. «He said you were his past.»
I almost laughed. «Funny. He told me that too.»
Three months passed. James bombarded me with pleas, then silence. Slowly, I rebuilt.
When we finally met again, I was steady. «I wont forgive you,» I said. «Not because you cheated, but because I refuse to spend my life policing you.»
We divorced. Sold the flat. Split the money.
«Be happy,» he murmured outside the registry office.
I looked at himthis man whod once been my whole worldand meant it when I replied, «I will.»
Walking away, I felt it for the first time in years: lightness.
Painful? Yes. Terrifying? Absolutely. But beneath it, something newunshakable.
Id chosen myself. And that was just the beginning.
