I learn that my husband has a second family in the next town.
What? my voice is low, but it rings like steel. Oliver, whats this?
He leans against the hood of a sleek, midnightblack car, polishing it until it shines like a newly‐worn pewter kettle. The scent of expensive leather and plastic drifts up to our thirdfloor kitchen window.
Surprise! Oliver spreads his arms as if hes embracing the whole world. A gift. For us. For the anniversarywell, almost I wanted to get it early. Like it?
I walk down the stairs slowly. I cant remember how I got here, how I opened the heavy frontdoor. My legs move on their own while a single thought hammers in my head, cold and sharp as a needle: the money. The money weve been tucking away for almost five years, penny by penny, for the first deposit on a mortgage for Emily, our daughter, so shell have a place of her own when she goes to university.
Oliver, are you out of your mind? I press my hand against the icy metal of the bonnet. The car looks predatory, beautiful, foreign. We agreed. That money is untouchable.
Marion, what are you starting to say? His smile flickers. Well earn more. Im now department head, the salarys bigger. And driving our old clunker feels shameful. Look at her!
He throws the passenger door open. The interior, trimmed in lightcoloured leather, beckons with comfort and luxury. For a heartbeat I want to sit inside, inhale that scent of a new life, but I force myself back.
Shameful? You felt ashamed driving the car that has served us faithfully for ten years? Im not ashamed of looking my daughter in the eye when she asks why we cant help her buy a flat.
Emily still has two years before university, Oliver waves it off. Well save in time. Dont be such a killjoy, be happy. Lets take it for a spin and wash the purchase.
He reaches for me, but I step away. Irritation flashes in his eyes; he isnt used to his grand gestures meeting a cold wall.
Im not going anywhere, I snap. Dinner isnt ready yet.
I turn back toward the entrance, feeling his bewildered, angry stare on my back. Inside, stirring the soup, I glance out the window. Oliver is still by the car, then kicks a tyre in frustration, slides into the drivers seat and roars away. Where he drives to wash the purchase doesnt matter to me. The bitterness in my chest is so sharp it makes me want to cry, yet no tears falljust an icy emptiness. Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of deciding everything together, discussing every big expense, every trip. And now he just drops this fact on me as if my opinion never existed.
He returns late, past midnight, quiet, a little guilty. He places a bag of her favourite biscuits on the kitchen table.
Marion, Im sorry. I got carried away. But understand, its for you too, so you can travel comfortably.
I dont drive, Oliver. I never planned to learn.
You will! Ill teach you myself, he says, sitting beside me, taking my hand. Dont be angry. A car is just a thing. Were a family. The main thing is were together.
I sigh. Maybe hes right. Maybe Im overreacting. Money is material, and my husband is trying to make amends. I smile weakly, and his face lights up. He launches into an enthusiastic monologue about the engines power, a clever navigation system, and heated seats. I nod halfheartedly, thinking a wise wife should endure, forgive, support.
The next day, Saturday, Oliver insists on a family outing out of town. Emily, now seventeen, squeals with delight, fiddling with buttons and levers in the new interior. I sit in the front seat trying to look pleased. The car glides smoothly, almost silently. Past us roll cottage estates, woodlands, fields. We stop by a scenic lake for a picnic. Oliver is jovial and attentive, pouring tea from a thermos, draping a blanket over me. I thaw a little, begin to believe things could be alright again.
That evening, after we return and Oliver parks the car, I decide to tidy the interiorshake out the mats, clear crumbs from biscuits. I open the glove compartment to stash some wet wipes and my fingers brush something hard tucked behind the owner’s manual. Its a receipt. An ordinary shop receipt for childrens toys. I unfold it, scan the lines, and freeze.
Space Station Builder 1 piece £85
Fairy Charm Bracelet 1 piece £38
The date is a week old. That day Oliver was on a work trip to a nearby regional centre, about seventyfive miles away, saying he needed to personally oversee a new major project. Who was buying such pricey toys? The builder looks like its for a boy ten to twelve; the bracelet for a girlor perhaps a woman. None of his colleagues have children that age. Maybe a gift for a managers son? Why spend so much? And why keep it secret?
I slip the receipt into my cardigan pocket. My heart pounds unpleasantly. Something about this feels wrong, counterfeit, like the whole car episodean impulsive, unilateral decision.
I cant sleep that night. I lie beside my peacefully snoring husband, staring at the ceiling, replaying the past few years. His trips become more frequent. He used to call every evening, recounting his day in detail. Now he sends short texts: All good, tired, going to bed. I chalk it up to his new role, to stress. But what if it isnt?
In the morning, while he showers, I finally act on something Ive never done in twenty years. I take his phone. The password is Emilys birthday. I scroll through contacts. Nothing suspiciousbosses, mates, friends. Except one: Sergei P. Plumber. Im puzzled. Why would Oliver keep a plumber from another town in his contacts? I open the message thread and a chill runs down my spine.
Sergei, are the pipes delivered? Oliver writes.
Yes, all set. Kirills thrilled, has been assembling for two days.
Who is Kirill? The plumbers son?
Another message: Hows the weather? Not cold yet?
Sunny here. I miss you terribly, comes the reply.
Sunny. Thats how Oliver used to call me in the early years of our romance, and Emily when she was little. Then he stopped, switching to Marion or daughter. In this chat, the word feels alive, warm. Nausea rises in my throat.
He writes: Will you come Saturday? Kirill has a swimming competition.
Ill try to make it.
Buy a cake on the way, my favourite, honeyspiced.
It isnt a plumber at all. Its a woman, and she has a son named Kirill. Oliver is buying cakes, attending competitions, sending expensive toys.
I put the phone back just as Oliver steps out of the bathroom. His hair is damp, a towel around his shoulders.
Whats wrong with you? You look pale, he says, wiping his hair.
My head hurts, I lie. Probably my blood pressure.
The whole day I drift like in fog, mechanically making lunch, chatting with Emily, answering Olivers questions. One thought repeats: who is this woman calling herself Sergei, asking for honey cake? How long has this been going on?
I need answers, not a fight. I need to understand, to let the world regain its clear edges, because right now it blurs like watercolour in rain.
On Monday I call work and say Im sick. Then I call my sister, who lives in that same regional centre.
Liz, hi. Im swinging by today, just for a day. Somethings come up.
Sure, come over! Anything wrong? she asks, worried.
No, all good. Just business.
I get into the new, hated car. My hands on the wheel feel alien. Oliver taught me a bit to drive years ago, though I never enjoyed it. The navigation system, praised by him, still holds a history of trips: Home, Work, and a few addresses in the neighbouring town. One appears most often: Green Street, number 15. A typical suburban block, judging from the map.
The drive takes an hour and a half. I stare at nothing, not knowing what Ill do when I arrive. Knock on the door? Cause a scene? No, that isnt me. I just need to see.
Green Street is quiet, a leafy courtyard, a standard ninestorey block. I park the car out of sight, near the corner. House 15, entrance 2. I sit on the bench opposite, put on dark sunglasses and wait.
An hour passes, then another. Residents with prams, retirees, teenagers hurrying about, come and go. I feel foolish. What am I doing here? Why waste time on this humiliating stakeout? Maybe Im wrong, maybe someone important to Oliver really lives here.
Then the entrance opens. Oliver steps out, wearing jeans and a plain tee, not a suit. He laughs, talking with a woman standing beside him. Shes a pretty blonde, about my age, holding a tenyearold lighthaired boy who smiles exactly like Oliver.
They stroll slowly to the playground. Oliver scoops the boy up, spins him; the child bursts into delighted laughter. The three of them sit on the swings. The woman smooths her hair, Oliver looks at her with a tenderness I havent seen in years. They look like an ordinary, happy family out for a weekday walk.
I cant breathe. Air seems to vanish. I pull out my phone and, without knowing why, snap a picture. The three on the swing, blurred by my shaking hand, but unmistakable proof. Evidence of my shattered life.
I dont remember the drive back. The world beyond the windshield turns into a smeared spot. At home I collapse onto the sofa and stare at a single point. The house I built over twenty years feels like cardboard scenery. My love, my loyalty, my lifeall turned out to be a lie.
Oliver comes home at his usual time, cheerful, bringing Emily a chocolate bar, kissing me on the cheek.
How are you, love? Did the headache pass? he asks, stepping into the kitchen.
I hand him the phone, the photo still open.
He looks at it, his smile draining away. He turns pale, stays silent for a few seconds, eyes shifting between the screen and my face.
This isnt what you think, he finally says.
What do you think, Oliver? My voice is calm, almost too 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?
Its complicated, he mutters.
Complicated? I scoff. Complicated is raising a child in the nineties on one salary. Complicated is caring for a sick mother, juggling home and hospital. This isnt complicated. Its cruel.
Emily walks in.
Mum, dad, whats wrong? You both look strange
Go to your room, love, I say, not raising my voice. Dad and I are talking.
Oliver sits down, looking older, slumped.
I didnt mean to hurt you.
Didnt mean to? I repeat. You bought a car with the money we saved for Emilys future, just to ferry another woman and another child! You didnt just hurt me, Oliveryou killed me. Now I want only one answer. How long?
He stays silent, head bowed.
Oliver!
Twelve years, he whispers.
Twelve years. Emily was five then. He started another family while our daughter was still a toddler. I close my eyes. I see flashes of our life: Emily in the park, him pushing her on a swing; us at the seaside, him teaching her to swim. And somewhere else, in another town, a boy on a swing, a womans hand on his shoulder.
I met Svetlana an engineer on a site. Things got tangled I didnt plan it. Then she said she was pregnant. I couldnt abandon her.
Could you abandon me? Could you abandon Emily?
I never left you! I love you! I love them too He looks at me, eyes brimming with tears. Marion, I dont know how this happened. Im confused.
Leave, I say softly.
What? Where am I going?
Anywhere, I nod toward the door. Where it isnt hard. Where theyre waiting and love you. Pack your things.
Marion, lets talk. Dont act on impulse. We
Weve said everything, Oliver. Go.
He gathers a small bag of essentials, tries to say something, but I turn away. When the door closes behind him, I walk to the window. He slips into his gleaming new car and drives away, probably toward Green Street.
Emily walks in, her eyes red from crying.
Mom, did Dad go? Forever?
I hug her tightly, until my arms ache.
I dont know, love. I dont know anything.
We sit together for a long time, hugging in the quiet of the empty flat. Outside, night falls. I look at the dark courtyard; the black car that embodied his lies is gone, but the empty space where it stood feels even more frightening. I am alone, fortyfive, with a universitygoing daughter and a shattered life. What comes next I cant picture. Yet for the first time in years I feel not pain or anger, but a strange, cold calm. One chapter has ended. Now I must begin writing a new one, on my own.
