My husband began attending church every single day. At first, I thought hed had some great revelation, perhaps a conversion of sorts. Yet as I later discovered, it wasnt prayer that drew him there.
Every afternoon, at half past five, he would leave the house, telling me he was off to evensong. Well, isnt that something? I thought back then. People do change after fifty. I certainly couldnt have guessed that those prayers were merely a cover.
It all began quite innocently. After Easter, he started talking more about faith and hinted that something was weighing on his mind and that he needed to cleanse his soul.
I put it down to a midlife crisis. Hed never been a particularly religious man, but if seeking comfort in prayer brought him peace, so be it. Id have supper nearly ready as he slipped out, returning an hour or so later calmer, as if he truly had unburdened himself.
Then I began to notice little things. Shirts pressed crisp as new, hair carefully slicked back, a dash of colognehed say it was out of respect for the Lords house. God deserves a smart appearance too, hed chuckle. It sounded silly but I didnt object. All in all, it was better than drinking, arguing, or spending his days glued to the computer. It was just church.
Everything changed one Sunday after wed returned from lunch at his sisters house. By mistake, I grabbed his jacket instead of my own while looking for the house keys and found a receipt insidea café just near the church. Two coffees, two slices of cake, date and time: Thursday, 6:05 pm. He was supposed to have been at rosary prayers that particular Thursday.
I said nothing. Not then. But the next day, I followed him. I sat at the back pew, where I could see without being seen. The service started, and he truly was there, alone, head bowed. He left before the final hymn, and I quietly followed. Thats when I saw her. She was waiting on the corner, dressed as if for an outing, smiling. They kissednot as friends do.
I walked home with legs like jelly, my heart thundering in my chest. I felt nothing but shame. Not anger, not sorrowjust shame. How had I missed it? How had I been so utterly blind?
The next day I asked him simply:
Whats her name?
He froze, made no excuses, told no half-truths. With a sigh, he answered,
Emily. I met her at church. She helps organise the services.
And youve been helping as well?
He said nothing, but sometimes silence says all there is to say.
I made no scene. I didnt throw him out at once. But I said, quite clearly:
Since you love prayer so dearly, youd better start praying for a new flat. Because youll be moving out of this one.
A week later, he packed his things and went to live with his friend from the parish. The childrengrown by thenwere stunned at first, but they understood in the end. One of my daughters told me,
Mum, its better now than in another ten years, when youd be seventy with nothing but tears left.
The start was hard. I felt deceived and defeated. I feared no one would love me again and that loneliness would be my lot. But with time I came to see that this solitude was far preferable to living a lie.
Half a year has passed. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of themshe looped through his arm, while he looks utterly bewildered by his own choices. Occasionally I wonder whether he might come back one day. But then I remember the scent of another woman’s perfume clinging to him, the way he looked at her as he left the church.
And in those moments, I know one thing: I want no part of a life with someone who needs the stone walls of a church to hide behind. I would rather live honestly, however hard it may be.
