My Husband’s Mistress Was Stunning—I’d Have Chosen Her Myself If I Were a Man. You Know the Type: Confident Women Who Walk with Poise, Meet Your Gaze, and Command Respect Without Flash or Fuss. She Was Exactly Who I’d Have Picked—My Complete Opposite. Because Me? I’m Always Rushing, Barking at the Kids and My Husband, Never on Top of Anything, Swamped at Work, Bosses Never Satisfied—Living in Permanent Trousers and Jumpers Because Who Has Time to Iron a Blouse? Her Lover, on the Other Hand, Had It All—That Figure, That Stature, Those Legs, That Hair, Those Eyes, That Face! And Ever Since I Found Out—Saw Them Together by Chance in a Café, My Husband Holding Her Hands and Kissing Her Fingers While I Sat Hidden in the Corner—I Haven’t Been Able to Catch My Breath. I Thought I’d Panic, But Inside It Was Just… Empty. That Evening, I Almost Asked Him Directly—So, How’s Your Mistress? She’s Gorgeous, Can’t Blame You, I’d Have Fallen for Her Too. But I Didn’t Say a Word. Maybe There’s Nothing Physical Yet—Just Chemistry, That Dangerous Unity of Breath and Thought. Maybe I Only Imagine It All. I Even Tried Googling What Women Do When They Catch Their Husbands Cheating, But Found No Answers. So, Do I Divorce Him? Tolerate It? What For? Funny—A Couple of Years Back, When Our Friends Went Through the Same Thing, My Husband Insisted a Real Man Would Confess, Take Responsibility, Provide for His Family. It’s Easy to Be Principled from a Distance. In Reality, All Certainty Vanishes. Eventually, I Confronted Them—Sat at Their Table in That Café, Looked at Both of Them, and Said: Well, Now What? We’ve Got Kids, a Shared Home, Elderly Parents to Think Of. You’re Both Clever—You’ll Work Something Out. Then I Walked Out in My One Properly Ironed Dress, Thinking I Should Wear It More Often.

My husbands mistress was absolutely stunning. Honestly, if I were a man, Id probably pick her too.

You know those women who are completely comfortable in their own skin? They walk with such self-assurance, look you straight in the eye, really listen when you talk. Theres no fussiness or over-the-top gestures, no need to show off a bare back or plunge neckline to get attention. They just have this calm, quiet strength and never lose their composure.

Honestly, if I were him, I might have chosen her myselfshes everything Im not.

Because what am I like? Always dashing around, barking at the kids and my husband, dropping everything, never quite on top of things, chaos at work, the boss always unhappy. Youll always find me in jeans or an old jumper. Even ironing a dress or blouse feels like an ordeal. I cant even remember the last time I pressed anything with ruffles or pleats. Thank goodness for the fancy new tumble dryer that leaves everything half-decent, so the iron barely gets a look-in.

But that mistress? She was so glamorous. Her figure, her posture, her legs, hair, eyes, faceshe was breathtaking!

And I havent really breathed properly since I found out. Or, more accurately, since I saw her. It happened by chance, at work, in some far-flung bit of town. I popped into a café to grab a quick bitemy job was done and, well, hunger waits for no one. The café was packed but I found a spot in the corner, sat down, glanced at the menu, then looked up. Nope, I wasnt imagining it. Id recognise my husband from behind anywhere. And there she was.

He was holding her hands in his, kissing her fingers. How bloody cheesy, I thought. Straight out of some bad romance novel. But, God, she looked good. Objectively, she really did.

I remember feeling strangely numb. The way you do after youve burned yourself, when you see the mark and you know agony is comingthose few seconds in limbo before the pain actually hits. And you find yourself blowing furiously on the red patch, trying desperately to ward off what you know is coming.

I thought it would hurt, but inside, I just felt empty. Nothing.

He came home at his usual time. Hes always so calm and cheerful. Me? Im always frantic, racing about, hustling everyone. Hes always been a rocksteady, methodical, with that dry sense of humour.

Right now, Im wishing Id borrowed some of that calm or his humour. Mine wasnt exactly up to scratch for this.

All evening I was itching to just ask him outrightin the most flat voice possibleSo, hows your girlfriend? Saw you at that café the other day, shes quite something, isnt she? I get it, if I were you I wouldnt have resisted either.

Then Id watch, relishing the way hed start to sweat, go red, try and keep cool.

I could take it further, too: So, what happens now? Are you going to introduce her to the kids? Theyll need to get used to their new mum. And what about mewhere do I go? Has she got her own place, or do you plan to bring her here?

Of course, I didnt say anything like that. He just cuddled up to me in bed as usual, pulled me close, and was fast asleep in no time.

Maybe they havent even slept together yet, I thought, edging away to my side of the bed with a mute laugh. Look at me, thinking like a woman whos just caught her husband cheating, yet still telling everyone its nothing, just her imagination.

Maybe nothings happenedjust a budding attraction, a prelude, thoughts and breathing in sync. And him, the perfect secretive lover. Not a word, not a twitch to give anything away.

I tossed and turned all night. Kept waking up with odd dreamsbright flowers and strangers in red dresses.

Next morning, I felt groggy, moved about the house slower than usual, gathered the kids for school calmly.

And all the while, I was wondering what on earth I should do next. What do most women do when they find their husband with someone else? Should I just Google it?

No help there. No answers of my own either. Try to just get on with things?

Well, what else is there to do? Life goes onthe same old routines. Husband coming home on time, no lipstick on his shirt, doesnt reek of someone elses perfume. Kids always bouncing about and our regular trips to the cinema on Sundays. Nothings changed. Even sex is reliably twice a week. Sometimes three times, if Im keeping score.

Maybe Id misread things in that café?

No, I hadnt. I rang him at lunchtime, no answer. I grabbed a cab back to that very café, coming up with some story for the driver about waiting for an important package for work. His car sat parked across the street. Husband and his fancy lady came out of the café together, hopped into his car and drove off.

I went white, asked the cabbie for some water, pretended to make a phone call, and shouted into the receiver, Well, you and your bloody package can do one! I cant wait any longer, Im going to work!

Still cared what the taxi driver thought of me. Funny, that.

Finding out your husbands got a mistress really does flip your world upside down. Divorce? Probably. How else do you live? Just put up with it? What for? To what end?

I remembered how, not long ago, some family friends went through the same thing. The husband hid it, tried to cover his tracks, but the wife found out anyway. Proper fireworks. He lied right up until the evidenceun-erased textswas staring him in the face. Claimed his phone had been hacked. Blamed work rivals.

Back then, my husband was adamant: Id never lie. It looks pathetic. If youve made a mess, at least have the backbone to come clean. Either break it off and stick by your family, or leave, but make sure you look after them.

I was quite proud of him for that, you know. So sensible. So responsible.

Its always easier to be decisive about other peoples drama, especially from a safe distance, away from the mess and consequences.

But once youre the one in the thick of it, looking at both wife and mistress across a table, all courage and clear-headedness vanish in a heartbeat.

So, I walked right up to their table in that café and sat myself down. The mistresss eyes went wide. My husband froze, then started fidgeting. No one said a word. It was almost amusing to me, watching them squirm. The mistress clocked who I was immediatelyor maybe shed always known.

My husband opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him with a raised hand. Nothing is ever quite what it seems, is it? But really, its not that shocking. These things happen. But its up to you to sort this out nowkids, our home, parents getting on a bit. Youll figure it out, youre both clever.

And I got up and walked out. The dress Id ironed especially did suit me after all. Shouldve worn it more often.