“I Know All About Your Affairs,” Said His Wife. Victor Went Ice-Cold. No, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn pale – though inside, everything crumpled tight, like a piece of paper balled up before being tossed away. He just froze. Larissa stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. A typical scene – her back to her husband, polka-dot apron, the smell of fried onions. A homey picture. Cosy. But her voice was pure newsreader – calm, steady. Victor actually wondered: had he misheard? Maybe she’d said something about the cucumbers – like she knew where to buy the good ones? Or about the neighbour on the third floor selling his car? But no. “All your affairs,” Larissa repeated, not turning around. Now that chilled him for real. Because in her tone there was no hysteria, no resentment. None of what he’d always feared: no tears, no accusations, no smashed crockery. Just a statement of fact. She might as well have said the milk was finished. Victor had lived fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of them – with this woman. He knew her as if she were as familiar as his own hand: the mole on her left shoulder, how she wrinkled her nose when tasting soup, the way she sighed in the mornings. But he’d never heard this tone from her. “Lar—” he started, but his voice failed. He coughed. Tried again. “Larissa, what are you talking about?” She turned. Looked at him – long and quietly, as if seeing him for the first time. Or perhaps more like looking at an old photograph, faded, where nothing is really clear anymore. “About Marina, for example,” she said. “From your accounts department. 2018, if I’m not mistaken.” Victor felt the ground vanish from beneath his feet. No, it wasn’t a figure of speech – the ground truly fell away, and he was just left suspended. God. Marina?! He could barely recall her face. There had been something – the office party, maybe? Or after? Quick. Nothing serious. He’d even promised himself: never again. “And about Sveta,” Larissa continued calmly. “Who approached you at the gym. That was two years ago.” He opened his mouth. Closed it. How did she even know about Sveta? Larissa switched off the hob. Took off her apron – neatly, unhurriedly, folded it in half. Sat at the table. “Do you want to know how I found out?” she asked. “Or is it more important to you why I’ve kept quiet all this time?” Victor was silent. Not because he didn’t want to speak – but because he simply couldn’t. “The first time,” Larissa began, “I noticed about ten years ago. You started staying late at work. Especially on Fridays. You came home cheerful, eyes bright. Smelling of perfume. She smirked – bitterly, joylessly. “I thought then, maybe I imagined it? Maybe someone at the office had new perfume? I convinced myself for a whole month. And then I found the restaurant receipt in your jacket pocket. Dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. You and I never went there. Victor wanted to say something – to defend himself, to lie, as usual. But the words stuck somewhere between his stomach and throat. “Do you know what I did?” Larissa looked him in the eye. “I cried in the bathroom. Then washed my face. Made dinner. Met you with a smile. Didn’t say anything to our daughter – she was fifteen then. Exams. First love. Why should she know her father… She trailed off. Ran her hand across the table, as if wiping away invisible dust. “I thought: I’ll get over it. It’ll pass by itself. Men are all like that – midlife crisis, hormones, silly mistakes. He’ll come back – and that’s fine. The main thing is the family’s intact. “Lar…” Victor forced out. “Don’t,” she cut him off. “Let me finish.” He fell quiet. “And then there was a second. A third. A fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone – never had a password. Did you think I never checked? I read your messages. Those stupid texts: ‘Miss you, bunny’, ‘You’re the best’. I saw the photos – hugging them, smiling. Her voice wavered – for the first time all conversation. But she pulled herself together. Took a deep breath. “And I kept asking myself: why am I putting up with this? Why keep living with someone who doesn’t love me?” “I do love you!” Victor blurted out. “Larissa, I—” “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t. You love the convenience. The clean flat. Hot dinners. Ironed shirts. A woman who doesn’t ask awkward questions.” She stood. Walked to the window. Stared into the darkness. “Do you know when I finally made up my mind?” she asked, not turning. “A month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. And she said, ‘Mum, you’re acting strange lately. Quiet. Like you’re not yourself anymore.’ And I thought: my God, she’s right. I really am not myself anymore. I haven’t lived for myself in years. Victor stared at her back – straight, tense – and suddenly realised: he was losing her. Not “could lose” – was losing. Right now. “I don’t want a divorce,” he said hoarsely. “Larissa, please.” “I do,” she replied simply. “I’ve already filed the papers. The hearing’s in a month.” “But why?!” Victor erupted. “Why now?!” Larissa turned. Looked at him – long and hard. And smiled. Sadly. “Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vitya. Because you can only betray someone who matters to you. And I was just there, to you. Always. Like air.” And it was the truth. Victor sat on the sofa – slumped, suddenly ten years older. Larissa stood in the hallway doorway. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And an abyss. Huge, unbridgeable. “You do know,” he said quietly, “I’ll be lost without you.” “You won’t be lost, you’ll go on,” she cut in. “Somehow.” “No!” He sprang up, took a step toward her. “Larissa, I’ll change! I swear! No more—” “Vitya,” she raised her hand to stop him. “It’s not about them. Not at all.” “Then what?” She paused. Gathering her words – the ones she’d meant to say years ago, but was afraid to. Or didn’t know how. Or never thought she was worth being heard. “Do you know how it felt? Always, when you came home after another ‘Marina’ or ‘Sveta’ – I’d lie next to you and feel like nothing. You never even really tried to hide it! Didn’t bother with your phone. Put shirts in the wash with her lipstick on the collar. You thought I was thick. Or blind. Victor sagged, as if struck. “I didn’t mean—” “Didn’t mean to?” She stepped right up to him. Her eyes blazed – but not with tears. With fury. Years of pent-up, bursting fury. “You just never thought about me. Did you, when you kissed another? ‘My wife won’t find out?’ Or ‘What does it matter?’” He was silent. Because the truth was worse. He really hadn’t thought about her. At all. Larissa was simply a given in his life. He always assumed: she’d never leave. She’d always be there. “You’d come home after your little so-called affairs – and nothing changed for you. Wife at home. Family whole. Everything fine. She turned away. “But I didn’t exist. Not in your world. Not at all. Victor stepped closer. Reached out – to touch her shoulder, to hug, to keep her. Larissa pulled away. “Don’t,” she said wearily. “It’s too late.” He grabbed her hands. “Larissa, please! Give me a chance! I’ll change! I’ll be different!” She looked down at their entwined fingers. At his face – twisted, terrified. And suddenly realised: he really was afraid. But not of losing her. He was afraid of being alone. “You know,” she said softly, freeing her hands, “I was scared, too. Of being alone. Without you. Without a family. But you know what I’ve realised?” She picked up her bag from the table. The keys. “I already am alone. Have been for years. With you – but alone.” And she walked to the door. Three weeks passed. Victor sat in the empty flat – Larissa moved in with their daughter immediately after that conversation – and scrolled through his phone. Marina from accounts. Sveta from the gym. Two, three more names in his contacts who’d once meant something. He tried Sveta’s number. She rejected the call. He texted Marina – read, no reply. The rest didn’t even view the messages. Funny – when he’d had a family, they all wanted to see him. And now, when he was supposedly free… No one wanted him at all. He sat on the sofa, in this flat, which suddenly seemed vast and alien, and for the first time in fifty-two years felt truly, deeply alone. He got his phone again. Found “Larissa”. Stared at the screen for ages. His hands shook. He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then just wrote: “Can we meet?” Reply came after an hour: “Why?” Victor thought. What should he say? “Sorry”? Too late. “Come back”? Ridiculous. “I’ve changed”? A lie. So he typed the truth: “I want to start over. Can we try?” Three dots blinked. Disappeared. Appeared again. And then came the answer: “Come on Saturday. To our daughter’s. At two. We’ll talk.” Victor exhaled. He didn’t know what would come of it. If she’d forgive. If she’d return. If he really deserved a second chance. He looked at his wedding ring. And for the first time in years, felt ready to start again. If she allowed it. Should Larissa have turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs? Or should she have confronted him and drawn the line back at the first sign of infidelity? What’s your view?

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 2

I know about your affairs, said his wife. Robert froze.

No, he didnt flinch. He didnt turn pale though inside, his guts clenched tight, like a letter crumpled before being tossed away. He just stood still.

Sandra stood at the hob, stirring something in a saucepan. A familiar pose her back to him, a pinny with tiny polka dots, the smell of sizzling onions. The picture of domesticity. Cosy. But her voice was the voice of a newsreader.

For a wild second, Robert wondered if hed misheard. Maybe shed said something about the cucumbers like, I know where you get good ones? Or about the neighbour upstairs, selling his Ford Fiesta?

But no.

All your affairs, Sandra repeated, not turning round.

Thats when genuine cold settled in his chest. Because in her tone there was no hysteria, no wounded pride. He heard none of what hed always dreaded: tears, accusations, crashing crockery. Just a simple statement, the way she might mention they were out of milk.

Robert was fifty-two. Theyd been married twenty-eight years. He knew her by heart the birthmark on her left shoulder, the way she wrinkled her nose while tasting soup, how she sighed in the mornings. But this voice, this calm, factual voice, hed never heard from her before.

San, he managed, but his voice failed.

He coughed. Tried again.

Sandra, what do you mean?

She turned. Studied his face long, unhurried, as if seeing a faded old photograph she could barely make out.

For instance, about Lauren, she said. From your accounts department. 2018, if I remember right.

Robert felt the ground shift. Not just a saying he really did feel as if the earth was gone, and he was suspended above emptiness.

Heavens. Lauren?

He could hardly recall her face. There had been some business at an office party, hadnt there? Or after? Brief. Nothing serious. Hed promised himself then: never again.

And Sophie, Sandra continued, steady as ever. From the gym. That was two years ago.

His mouth opened. Closed.

And she knew about Sophie too?!

Sandra turned off the hob. Untied her pinny, folded it slowly, neatly in half. Sat down at the table.

Do you want to know how I found out? she asked, very calmly. Or are you more interested in why I kept quiet?

Robert said nothing. Not because he didnt want to, but because he honestly couldnt speak.

The first time, Sandra began, was about ten years ago. You started working late. Especially on Fridays. Came home cheerful, eyes bright. Smelling of perfume.

She gave a small, bitter smile with no hint of joy.

I talked myself into thinking I imagined it. Office must, new aftershave someone else wears, perhaps. Spent a month convincing myself. And then I found a receipt from a restaurant in your jacket. Dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. You and I have never eaten there together.

Robert tried to say something a denial, a lie, as usual. The words stuck somewhere between his stomach and his throat.

Know what I did? Sandra met his gaze. I cried in the bathroom. Then washed up. Cooked supper. Greeted you with a smile. Never said a word to our daughter she was fifteen then. GCSEs, first romance. Why did she need to know her dad

She broke off. Ran a hand along the table, as if brushing away dust only she could see.

I thought Id get over it. Itd stop. All men, midlife crisis, hormones, daftness. Hell come back, and all will be well. The main thing is the family is whole.

San managed Robert.

Let me finish, she cut in.

He fell silent.

And then came the second. The third. The fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone always unlocked. Did you think I didnt look? I read your messages. Those daft texts Miss you, honey, Youre the best. Saw the photos you with them, arms around, all grins. Her voice wavered for the first time in all this. She pulled herself together with a long breath.

I kept asking myself: why am I still here? Why live with someone who doesnt love me?

I do! burst from Robert. Sandra, I

No, she said, calm and firm. You dont. You love comfort. A clean house. Hot supper. Ironed shirts. A woman who doesnt ask awkward questions.

She stood, moved to the window, gazed out into the darkness.

Want to know when I made up my mind? she asked, not turning. Last month. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat here, had tea. She told me, Mum, youre different. Quiet. Like you arent yourself. And I realised she was right. Id spent ten years living someone elses life.

Robert stared at her back so straight, so tense and the truth hit: he wasnt at risk of losing her. He was actually losing her, right this second.

I dont want a divorce, he rasped. Sandra, please.

I do, she said softly. Ive already filed. The hearings in a month.

But why now?! he exploded. Why now?

Sandra turned, staring at him with a long, deep look. She smiled, ever so sadly.

Because I finally understood you never betrayed me, Rob. You can only betray someone who matters to you. To you, I was just there. Always. Like air.

And that was true.

Robert slumped on the sofa, hunched, feeling ten years older. Sandra stood by the hallway door. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a grown daughter, a flat whose every corner remembered them both. And a chasm, unbridgeable and wide.

You do realise, he murmured, Ill be lost without you.

You wont, she cut in. Youll cope. Youll manage.

No! He leapt up, reached for her. Sandra, I swear, Ill change! No more

Rob, she raised a hand, stopping him. Its not about them. Not really.

Then what?

She paused. Searching for words shed wanted to speak for years, but was too afraid. Or perhaps never found worth saying.

You know what it was like for me? Every time you came home from seeing another Lauren or Sophie Id lie there next to you, feeling invisible. You didnt even bother hiding it! Phone in plain sight. Shirts tossed in the wash, lipstick on the collar. You thought I was a fool. Blind.

Robert flinched, as if struck.

I never meant

You never meant? She stepped close. Her eyes were bright not from tears, but from fury. Years and years of it, bottled up and now free. You just never thought of me at all. What went through your head when you kissed someone else? Sandra wont ever know? Or Whats the difference?

Silence.

Because the truth was worse.

He really hadnt thought about her. Not at all. Sandra was simply a given. Hed always believed shed stay. Shed always be there.

Youd come home after your latest trip out and you felt fine. Because nothing had really changed, had it? Wife at home. Family still together. All just as it should be.

She shook her head.

But I wasnt there. In your world, Rob. I was nowhere.

Robert took a step forward, reached out to touch her shoulder, embrace, keep her.

Sandra stepped away.

Dont, she said, worn out. Its too late.

He caught her hands.

Sandra, please! One more chance! Ill change! I promise!

She looked at their interlaced fingers, then at his miserable, frightened face. Suddenly she understood: he was truly scared. Just not of losing her.

He was afraid to be alone.

You know, she said quietly, slipping free, I used to be afraid, too. Afraid of being alone. Without you. Without the family. But do you know what Ive realised?

She grabbed her handbag. Her keys.

I already am alone. Been so for years. Right next to you but on my own.

She headed for the door.

Three weeks have passed.

Robert sits in the empty flat Sandra moved in with their daughter the very next day and scrolls through his phone. Lauren from accounts. Sophie from the gym. Two, three more names, once so meaningful.

He dials Sophie.

She lets it ring, then rejects.

He texts Lauren she reads, but doesnt reply.

The rest dont even bother opening his messages.

Funny thing: when he was the family man, they were all eager to see him. Now that hes free

No one wants to know.

He sits on his sofa, in this flat thats suddenly cavernous and alien, and feels, for the first time in his fifty-two years, truly and utterly alone.

He picks up the phone again. Finds Sandra. Stares at the screen, hands trembling.

He types a message. Deletes it. Types again. Deletes.

Then simply writes: Can I see you?

A reply comes, an hour later: Why?

Robert thinks. What to say? Sorry? Too late. Come back? Nonsense. Ive changed? A lie.

He types only the truth:

I want to try again. May we?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

And then the answer:

Come round Saturday. To our daughters place. Two oclock. Well talk.

Robert lets out a breath.

He doesnt know what will happen. Whether shell forgive. Whether shell return. Whether he even deserves a second chance.

He stares at the wedding ring he never took off.

And for the first time in decades, he feels capable of starting anew.

If shell allow it.

Was Sandra right to turn a blind eye to Roberts indiscretions all those years? Should she have confronted him the first time, and put an end to it? What do you think?