I realised my ex-husband was cheating on me the moment he started sweeping the street outside our house.
It sounds ridiculous, I know, but thats exactly how it unfolded. He worked as an electrician, using the converted garage as his home workshop. Most days he was busy with wires, tools scattered about, and customers dropping in and out. Housework never interested him. Not out of pride or stubbornness, but because hed always much rather relaxwatch a bit of telly, head to the local pub for a pint, maybe light up the barbecue for a few mates. Calm and steady, that was him. No taste for parties, never raised his voice, not someone who gave you cause to be suspicious.
Our street was a muddy lane on the edge of a sleepy English village, wide and lined with old oaks. There were always leaves, dust, and muck about. Sweeping was almost a daily jobusually me out there early, broom in hand, before the kettle had finished boiling for breakfast. Then, one ordinary week, a new neighbour moved into the house next door. Nothing out of the ordinarythose houses were always rented out, the tenants changing every year or so.
A few months after she arrived, he suddenly started saying, Dont worry, love, Ill do the sweeping today.
At first I thought it was sweet. Gave me some time to tidy up elsewhereget the washing up done, scrub the loo, hang the laundry. I never bothered to watch him; after all, why would I?
But then he started doing it every day.
And not only thatalways at exactly the same time. Seven oclock, on the dot. Never earlier, never later. I started to notice, seeing as hed never been one for punctuality, unless it was for a job. Out of idle curiosity, one morning I looked out through the front window.
And there he was.
Broom in hand, but not sweeping. Chatting. Smiling. Right opposite himthe new neighbour. Coincidence, I told myself. But then the next morning it happened again. And again after that. Every single time he went out, she appeared too. As if theyd synchronised their clocks.
I started to pay more attention. It wasnt just mornings, either. One Saturday he said he was off for a pint with his matespretty standard fare. But when he opened the door, something felt off. I watched from the window and saw her leave at exactly the same time. She called out:
Oh, evening, neighbour! Have a nice night.
He replied, perfectly casual. And she added,
What a coincidence, Im heading that way myself.
And they set off down the lane together.
The next weekend, he claimed hed organised a game of footballutterly out of character for him. He disappeared out the front, and within minutes, so did she, chatting on her phone, strolling in the same direction.
I had no evidence. No texts. No photos. Nothing but patternstimings, little routines, coincidences that were far too neat to be real.
One afternoon, I didnt ask. I confronted him. Cold and direct:
I know youre seeing the woman next door.
He stared at me, caught off guard. At first he denied it, but I pressed on:
Ive seen the two of you. Every day. Dont bother lying.
He fell silent. Wouldnt meet my eyes. Finally, quietly, he admitted,
Yes. Im with her. Im in love.
I shouted at him to leave the house. There were no children, nothing to discuss or divide. And the cruel punchline? He moved outand straight into the house next door, with her.
They didnt last long. Maybe a couple of months. Then the pair of them disappeared. Nobody knew quite what happenedthey left the village without a word, and I never heard from either of them again. The neighbours speculated, the family whispered, but I wanted no part of it.
