The phone rang. An unknown number flashed on the screen, and I lifted the receiver while my hands were still slick from washing the dishes.
Good afternoon, MrsMartha? a woman’s voice asked, young and calm, with a faint accent from beyond the western border.
Yes, speaking, I replied.
Please dont hang up Its important. I have a child with your husband.
For a heartbeat I thought my ears had deceived me; the next I wondered if it were a cruel joke. In the third instant my whole body seemed to freeze, as if ice were seeping into my bones. I braced myself against the kitchen counter to keep from collapsing.
What are you saying? I whispered.
Mark a lorry driver. He runs routes to Germany. Weve been seeing each other for over a year. I thought he was single.
She spoke slowly, as someone who had rehearsed every word. Each syllable landed like a hammer blow. My husband the same man who had texted me the night before, Ill be late, the unload is taking longernow had a second family.
The baby is seven months old, the other woman continued. Im not after money. I just want you to know.
The phone slipped from my grip. The sound of it hitting the floor cracked the silence like shattering glass. I stared at the kitchen, at the family photograph stuck to the fridge, and felt my whole life crumble in an instant.
I cant recall how long I sat on the floor, propped against the cupboard, while time itself seemed to stop. In my head the phrase kept looping: I have a child with your husband. I repeated it, hoping the words might lose their sting, but each repetition felt sharper.
Later that evening Mark called, his voice as steady as ever.
Everythings sorted, Ill be back tomorrow. Need me to bring anything? he asked, as if speaking to a mate.
I froze. For a breath I wanted to say, Bring the truth, but instead I murmured, Come. We need to talk.
He arrived the next day. The lorry rolled to a stop by the block, and from my window I watched him climb outtired, unaware that this house was no longer his home. He stepped inside and, out of habit, wrapped his arms around me. I pulled away.
A woman from Germany called me, I said. She said she has a child with you.
Blood seemed to drain from his face. He made no effort to deny it. He sat, staring at the floor for a few seconds, then began to speak.
I never wanted you to find out like this. It was a mistake. Everything got out of hand. His voice cracked. It started as a simple acquaintancecoffee, a chat on the parking lot. Sometimes a man just needs someone to listen.
And then you fertilised her, I snapped. Thats enough.
He fell silent, unable to mount any defence.
She didnt know I was married, he added after a pause. When she got pregnant I told her Id sort everything outtake a loan, help out. But I couldnt. I didnt know how to explain it to you.
Anger turned to a cold numbness. I looked at the man I had shared more than twenty years with as if through a pane of glass.
Why? I asked finally. We had everything.
Because of that, he whispered. We had too much routine, too little of us.
For the first time I understood that infidelity does not always spring from passion; sometimes it rises from silence, from years of unspoken grievances. It does not make the wound any less painful.
He drifted out of the kitchen, leaving behind the scent of cold metal and diesel. The door clicked shut, and I sank into a chair. The house was hushed. On the table rested his coffee mug, still warm. For a moment I wanted to smash it, to destroy every reminder of him, but I only nudged it aside.
He never called the next day, nor the one after. Then a text appeared: I need to think. Please dont close the door. I did not reply.
That night I turned on the computer and found her profilea younger woman, ordinary, holding a baby boy with dark eyes that mirrored Marks. My heart clenched like a fist.
I couldnt look away. Then it hit me: her hurt was different from mine, yet real. She too lived a lie, a subplot of the story he had written without our consent.
I shut the laptop. No tears fell. I was simply exhausted, as if all twentyplus years had collapsed onto me at once.
Two weeks passed. The house felt too quiet, the bed too wide. At first I waited for his call, his arrival, his familiar gaze that always dissolved my anger. He never came. Instead a plain envelope appeared, his uneven handwriting scrawled in haste.
I’m not asking for forgiveness, the letter began. I just want you to know I never planned this. I never meant to lead a double life. It happened. Im ashamed I lacked the courage to tell you the truth. The child is mine. Ill support them, but I dont want to intrude on their lives. I want to come back, if youll let me.
I read the note repeatedly. Each sentence sounded differentsometimes remorse, sometimes excuse. I cant say whether the child is mine or I want to come back hurt more. How do you return to a place you yourself burned?
A few days later he stood at the door, thinner, with grey streaks at his temples. He looked at me with the same earnest eyes that once seemed to own the world. He carried a bag, as if ready for anything.
I know I dont deserve this, he said. But I cant be without you.
I let him in. He sat at the table where we once shared morning coffee. We sat in silence for a long while. Finally I asked, And her?
She knows Ive come home, he answered softly. She didnt want to hold me back.
Nothing resolved from that conversationno decision, no promiseonly a void that hung between us like something unnamed.
Since then we sleep in separate rooms. He still cooks, cleans, fixes the little things he never noticed before. I learn to live with the knowledge that some things cant be pieced back together, no matter how hard you try.
When I turn off the lights at night, I think of that boy with Marks eyes and wonder whether hell ever want to meet his father. And I wonder if I could ever forgive him before he forgives himself.
Im not sure I can love that man any more. I do know I cant keep living a lie. That pain, however sharp, marks the beginning of something real.
