“Thanks, sweetheart! I don’t know what I’d do without you,” flashed across the screen of the smartphone.
The phone vibrated right in her hand. Emily instinctively glanced at the message. The sender was someone named “Molly.” A heart emoji coyly ended the text.
Emily’s eyes widened. *Molly? Sweetheart?* She might’ve brushed it off as a distant cousin or coworker—except for one thing: her husband didn’t know anyone named Molly. *Or did he?* She forced herself to stay calm. Best to get the facts before jumping to conclusions. But jealousy pricked at her chest.
“Who’s Molly?” Emily kept her voice steady, barely.
Oliver, mid-sip of his tea, blinked in confusion.
“What?”
“Molly,” Emily said tightly, shoving the phone toward him. “Who is she?”
He glanced at the screen, tension flickering in his eyes. He shrugged too quickly.
“Oh… that’s just Molly.”
“*Just* Molly?”
“My ex. There’s nothing going on, alright?”
Emily set his phone down slowly, arms crossed.
“So your ex calls you ‘sweetheart’ with heart emojis? Seriously?”
Oliver shrugged again, like it wasn’t worth discussing.
“Yeah, I helped her out. She needed a loan, so I lent her some cash.”
Emily’s temper flared.
“You gave money to your ex?”
“Yeah, what’s the big deal?”
“The *big deal*?” she echoed mockingly. “You think that’s normal? Taking from *our* budget to throw cash at some ‘Molly’?”
Finally, he met her eyes.
“Emily, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. We’re not enemies—I’ve known her forever. Why can’t I help her?”
She laughed, sharp and joyless.
“You’re *married*, Oliver. To *me*. Yet you’re still playing knight in shining armor for your ex.”
He exhaled, irritated, like he was explaining the obvious to a toddler.
“We didn’t end on bad terms. She’s not a stranger.”
“And what am I? A stranger?”
Oliver stayed silent. Emily shook her head, exhaling hard.
“How long has this been going on?”
“What?”
“Your *cosy* little chats.”
He looked away.
“We’ve always stayed in touch. Even before you. I just never brought it up—didn’t want to stress you out.”
Her stomach dropped.
“So you’ve been hiding this for *two years*?”
“Not hiding! Just didn’t see the point in mentioning it. I’m not cheating. You’ve got no reason to worry.”
She breathed slowly, fighting the urge to scream.
“How often do you ‘help’ her?”
“Now and then. Little things—fixing her shelves, sorting her laptop.”
“So my *husband* runs errands for another woman like some handyman?”
“Christ, Emily!” he snapped. “I helped her, I lent her money—so what? Crime of the century? I’d do the same for you!”
She stared at him, cold resolve settling in.
“If you can’t see what’s wrong here, then we don’t share the same values.”
She turned and walked out. She couldn’t stand to look at him.
The next few weeks only confirmed her suspicions. Now that she knew what to look for, the pattern was obvious. Oliver’s “late work nights” every few days? Conveniently timed with Molly’s “emergencies.”
“Popping over to Molly’s tonight,” Oliver said casually over dinner. “Her washing machine’s leaking.”
Emily set her fork down.
“No repairmen in all of London?”
“Come off it, it’s just a quick fix.”
“Quick for *you*. Hard for *me* to swallow.”
“Here we go again!”
“*Yes*, again,” she said icily. “Because your ex just *happens* to need rescuing every other day. Thank God you two don’t have kids.”
Oliver chewed, irritated.
“If it were someone else—your mum, a neighbour—you wouldn’t care.”
“The difference is, no one else calls you *every bloody day*.”
He sighed, rubbing his temples.
“Honestly, you’re acting like I’m having an affair.”
“I don’t know if you are,” she shot back. “But it *looks* shady, and I’m done with it.”
A bitter silence followed.
Three days later, Molly resurfaced.
“Molly called,” Oliver said breezily. “Needs a fridge delivered but no way to get it home.”
Emily turned slowly.
“You’re telling me you’ll drop everything, take *our* car, and haul a fridge for her?”
“Well, yeah.”
“You *genuinely* don’t see a problem?”
“I see *you* turning molehills into mountains.”
“No, *you’re* the one acting like a circus clown. If you love babysitting Molly so much, why don’t you move in? Save petrol.”
“You’re being serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“So you’re kicking me out?”
“No, Oliver. *You’re* choosing. Here, with your wife, or out there playing hero. I’m done.”
She left before he could reply.
Twenty-four hours passed—no calls, no texts. He’d left. Not to Molly’s (supposedly), but the silence spoke volumes.
Two days later, he strolled back in like nothing happened.
“Calmed down yet?” he asked, tossing his keys down.
Emily turned, jaw tight.
“Your idea of fixing this is vanishing, then waltzing back like it’s nothing?”
Oliver groaned, martyred.
“Emily, *honestly*. You’re overreacting.”
Her fists clenched.
“I’m not. I just won’t share my marriage with someone else.”
“There *is no one else*! You’re inventing drama!”
“Fine,” she said, staring him down. “If you still don’t get it, here’s the deal: cut contact with Molly, or we’re done.”
He froze.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“You’d throw away our marriage over *this*?”
“I’d walk away from a man who won’t choose me.”
He scoffed.
“So you’re leaving?”
“Already packed,” she said, grabbing her suitcase. “I’ll be at Mum’s. Decide what matters more: your wife or your ex.”
He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say a word. *That* hurt most.
A week passed. No calls. Her mum sighed over tea.
“You’re being too hard on him, love. He’s just a soft touch.”
Emily laughed bitterly.
“Soft touch? Or still hung up?”
“Decent men don’t grow on trees. Maybe compromise?”
She shook her head. It wasn’t just Molly. He’d refused to *hear* her.
On day ten, Oliver finally called.
“Cooled off yet?”
Her grip tightened on the phone.
“You think I threw a strop and needed to ‘cool off’?”
“Didn’t you?”
She closed her eyes. *Enough.*
“Oliver, do you even know why I left?”
“Over nothing.”
A sad smile touched her lips.
“Right. If it’s ‘nothing,’ then we’re done. I’m filing for divorce.”
Silence. Then—
“Fine. Your loss.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Mine alone.”
She hung up. For the first time in weeks, the weight lifted. No more waiting, wondering. Just clean, quiet certainty.
After all, when one door closes, another opens.
