The Gift That Cost Me My Marriage
Charlotte felt the small velvet box in her dressing gown pocket and clenched it tightly in her palm. Her heart pounded so hard she thought the whole house could hear it. Behind the wall, the dull hum of the TV played—Edward was watching the evening news, just as he had every night for the past twenty-seven years of their marriage.
“Love, want some tea?” Edward called from the living room.
“In a minute,” she replied, still gripping the box. “Just finishing up.”
She stood by the kitchen window, watching the neighbours’ children kick a football between parked cars. An ordinary weekday scene, yet today it felt strangely significant, as if she were seeing it for the last time.
The box warmed in her hand. Inside were gold cufflinks with small diamonds—a gift she’d been saving for Edward’s anniversary. Three months of skimping on her creams and medicines, setting aside money from every paycheck, just to surprise him—to show him how much she valued him.
But yesterday, everything changed.
“Are you coming or not?” Edward called impatiently. “The programme’s already started.”
Charlotte took a deep breath and went to the living room. Her husband sat in his favourite armchair, in a stretched-out T-shirt and joggers. Two cups of tea and an open newspaper sat on the coffee table.
“Hey, remember Lucy Bennett from our class?” Edward asked, eyes fixed on the screen.
Charlotte froze, the cup trembling in her hands. She’d spent all night thinking about this very woman.
“I do,” she answered carefully. “Why?”
“Ran into her today near the shop. Says she just got divorced. Her husband left her for some younger woman. Can you believe it, after thirty years?”
Charlotte set the cup down. Her hands shook.
“What’s she doing now?”
“Living alone in a flat, working odd cleaning jobs. Poor thing. She was a nice girl in school.”
Edward shook his head and flipped channels. Adverts flickered across the screen.
Charlotte stayed silent. She couldn’t tell him she’d seen it all—how she’d stood in the next aisle, heard every word, watched him hug Lucy, watched her press close, heard them arranging to meet tomorrow evening.
“Love, why so quiet?” Edward finally looked at her. “Feeling ill?”
“No, just tired. Work was mad today.”
“Right. Get to bed early, then.”
He turned back to the telly. Charlotte stood and went to the kitchen, pretending to tidy up. The cufflink box in her pocket now felt heavy as a stone.
She remembered spotting them three months ago in the jeweller’s window—how she’d imagined Edward’s face lighting up. He’d always loved nice things, though he rarely bought them for himself. Family came first, he’d say.
Family. What a joke.
She pulled the box out and opened it. The cufflinks gleamed under the kitchen light—expensive, beautiful, the kind he’d never buy himself.
“Love, popping to the shop,” Edward called from the hall. “Out of bread.”
“Alright,” she called back.
The door shut. Charlotte peered through the window—Edward wasn’t heading to the shop, but to the bus stop. Right where he’d arranged to meet Lucy.
She snapped the box shut and walked to the bedroom. Framed photos covered the dresser—their wedding, their son James’s birth, their first seaside holiday. Happy faces, embraces, smiles. Had it all been a lie?
She picked up their wedding photo. Edward in a white suit, her in a long gown with a veil. Young, in love, full of plans. They’d been twenty-four. A lifetime ahead.
“Mum, hello!” The doorbell rang, followed by James’s voice. “It’s me!”
Charlotte shoved the box into the drawer and hurried to open the door. James stood there, arms full of shopping bags.
“Sweetheart, so glad you came,” she hugged him.
“Thought I’d drop by, been a while.” He unpacked the groceries. “Where’s Dad?”
“Just nipped to the shop,” she lied. “Back soon.”
James filled the kettle. “Mum, you alright? You look pale.”
“Fine, love. Just work stress.”
“Right. By the way, met my mate Tom? New bloke at work. Decent chap, single. Fancy you and Dad visiting this weekend? Want to show off the new flat.”
Charlotte nodded, barely hearing. One thought looped: How long has this affair gone on? Does he love Lucy? Is he leaving us?
“Mum, you listening?” James waved a hand.
“Of course. The flat.”
“No, I asked if you’d thought about getting a dog. Like we always talked about when I was little. Now you’ve got the time.”
“A dog? Why?”
“Well, keep you company. You and Dad are getting on—must get dull, just the two of you.”
Just the two of them. How fitting.
“James, tell me honestly,” she sat opposite him. “Are you happy in your marriage?”
He blinked. “What kind of question’s that? Sally’s brilliant.”
“And if you found out she cheated?”
“Mum!” He nearly choked on his tea. “Where’s this coming from? Sally wouldn’t—”
Charlotte backtracked. “Just silly thoughts. Saw a programme about affairs.”
“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Probably divorce. Couldn’t stay with someone who betrayed me.”
Betrayed. The perfect word.
They chatted for another hour before Edward returned, swinging a bread bag, impossibly cheerful.
“Oh, James is here!” He hugged their son. “How’s work?”
“Fine, Dad. Keeping busy.”
“That’s my boy. Ran into Lucy Bennett today—remember her? From our class. Poor thing, just divorced.”
Charlotte watched closely—no guilt, no hesitation. As if it really was just a chance encounter.
“Don’t recall her,” James said. “What happened?”
“Husband left her. Struggling now, cleaning jobs.”
“Right. But that’s her problem, Dad. Everyone’s got their own life.”
Edward nodded and turned on the telly. James left soon after.
“Mum, sure you’re alright?” he asked at the door. “You’ve been off.”
“Fine, love. Drive safe.”
The flat fell quiet. Edward watched a film; Charlotte pretended to read, words blurring.
Next morning, Edward kissed her cheek and left for work—same as always, as if nothing had changed.
Charlotte couldn’t focus at the office. Colleagues asked if she was ill, but she blamed headaches.
That evening, she came home early and made Edward’s favourite—steak and mash. Set the table nicely, even lit candles.
He looked surprised. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Just fancied treating you.”
Over dinner, they talked about work, holiday plans. Edward was charming, attentive—almost like the early days. She nearly convinced herself yesterday was a dream.
Then after dessert:
“Love, popping round Dave’s later. Wants to show me his new fishing rod.”
Dave lived across town—an hour and a half by bus.
“Can’t it wait?” she asked.
“No, promised I’d drop by.”
He changed and left. Charlotte cleared up, washed dishes, then took out the cufflink box again.
Beautiful. Expensive. Bought with months of savings. She’d thought they’d be a symbol of love—gratitude for years together.
Now they felt like a mockery.
Next day, she returned them to the jeweller’s.
“I’d like a refund,” she said.
“Fault with them?” the clerk asked.
“No fault,” Charlotte said. “Just the marriage.”
The clerk blinked but processed the return.
That evening, Edward made another excuse—helping a mate with car repairs.
“Edward,” she stopped him at the door.
“Yeah?”
“You remember what tomorrow is?”
He frowned.
“Our anniversary. Twenty-seven years.”
He smacked his forehead. “Bloody hell! Knew I’d forgotten something. Tomorrow, I promise—whole day’s yours.”
“Where are you really going tonight?”
“Dave’s, like I said.”
He kissed her and left. Charlotte sat at the computer, typed up a house listing, hesitated—then hit “post.”
Twenty-seven years. A son, future grandchildren, memories. Could she really throw it all away?
But what was the point staying with a man who lied to her face?
Next morning, Edward woke chipper.
“Happy anniversary, love!”
“Thanks,” she said flatly.
“Thought we could go out tonight. Fancy a restaurant?”
“Edward, we need to talk.”
His smile faded. “What about?”
“Sit down.”
She took a breath. “I know about Lucy.”
He paled. “What do you know?”
“Everything. The lies about Dave, the car repairs.” She slid photos across the table—Edward and Lucy holding hands in a café. Kissing.
He stared, then dropped his head.Edward looked at the photos, then back at her, and for the first time in twenty-seven years, Charlotte saw the truth in his eyes—not regret, not sorrow, just the quiet relief of a man finally caught, and with it, the last thread of their marriage slipped through her fingers like sand.
