“Someone Else’s Husband”
“Bethany, I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Wife called? Fine, go ahead. I’m used to it.”
Letting Edward go back to his wife never got easier for Bethany. She wished he’d stay just once—maybe grab dinner at a cosy pub, curl up under a blanket with a film, and sip the coffee she’d brew just right. But no. Those were just daydreams. Edward had never hidden his marriage—his wife, his son. He didn’t love her anymore, he claimed, but stayed for the boy’s sake. Once the lad finished school, *then* he’d leave. Then he’d be hers.
Bethany couldn’t care less about the wife. Why should *she* worry about some stranger’s happiness? If a marriage fizzles out, it’s obvious. Let him go. Edward was just being a decent dad, avoiding heartbreak for his son. Fine. Her time would come. In two years, the boy would be off to uni, and *then*—blankets, films, maybe even a proper family. She dreamed of a daughter, her spitting reflection.
Two years flew by. She waited. Excuses piled up.
“You see, Victoria’s mum’s taken ill. She’s moved in with us. I can’t just walk out now—you understand.”
Bethany sighed and nodded. How much longer? Till *retirement*?
Then—late. A test. Two lines. Maybe it was for the best. A doctor’s appointment wouldn’t hurt.
She sat in the clinic, fingers tapping. The door swung open. Out waddled a very pregnant woman, arm hooked in her husband’s. Edward. *What the—?*
They left without spotting her. The doctor greeted Bethany with a frown.
“Miss, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Everything alright?”
“Fine. Just… checking.”
The doctor confirmed it—pregnancy. Congratulations.
“Having your first at 35’s a bit late, but no matter. Saw a lovely couple earlier—forty, their son’s off to uni, and they’re starting fresh with a little girl. Proper solid marriage, that.”
Bethany smirked. No reply. Her mind raced. So *this* was his grand plan? A baby with the wife he “didn’t love”? How long had he meant to hide it? What now?
“Little Fox, I can’t make it tonight, sorry—”
“Don’t worry. I’m busy too.”
“Doing what?”
“Clubbing with Sophie. Sick of waiting around.”
“*Clubbing?* You’re how old? That’s not a good idea—”
“Not your call. You’re *someone else’s husband*. Stay in your lane.”
She hung up. Oh, *now* he cared? She wasn’t some loyal pet waiting for scraps between his *real* life. Best bits for the wife and kid, leftovers for her. And her clock was ticking—but no matter. Now *she’d* have a child of her own.
Edward showed up unannounced, drunk, weeping. His wife had lost the baby—a girl—during labour. Everything had gone wrong. His wife was shattered, losing her grip. He didn’t know what to do.
“What do you *mean*? Be there for her! It’s *your* grief too. Why lie to me if things were ‘fine’?”
“God’s punishing me—taking my daughter because of *you*—”
“Don’t be daft. *You* did this. Lied to her, lied to me… Man up. Go home.”
“I love you both. Differently. I can’t choose—”
“Goodbye, Edward.”
She slammed the door. Cried. Pity for his wife, pity for herself. Soon *she’d* be a mother—she couldn’t imagine that pain.
He called. Showed up tipsy. She sent him packing. He never knew she had a son—*his* son. Mark, his mirror image. On the birth certificate, “father” stayed blank.
Statistics say 10% of men leave wives for mistresses. Half slink back. How many women still wait, believing promises of divorce? Too many.
