The phone rang. An unknown number flashed on the screen, and I answered without thinking, my hands still slick from washing the dishes.
Good evening, MrsMartha? asked a woman’s voice, young and calm, with a faint accent from across the western border.
Yes, Im listening, I replied.
Please dont hang up its important. I have a child with your husband.
For a heartbeat I thought Id misheard. The next, that it was a joke. Then a cold weight settled over my whole body, as if ice were slowly tightening every limb. I braced myself against the kitchen counter to keep from collapsing.
What did you say? I whispered.
Mark the lorry driver who runs routes to France. Wed been seeing each other for over a year. I thought he was single.
She spoke slowly, as if rehearsing each syllable for a long time. Every word landed like a hammer. My husbandthe same man who had texted me the night before, Ill be late, the unload is taking longerhad another family.
The baby is seven months old, the other woman said. Im not after money. I just want you to know.
The handset slipped from my fingers. The crash of it hitting the floor sounded like glass shattering in the silence. I stared at the kitchen, at the family photograph stuck on the fridge, and felt my whole life crumble like a house of cards.
I cant recall how long I sat on the floor, propped against the cupboard, while time itself seemed to stop. In my head the sentence repeated over and over: I have a child with your husband. I tried to say it softer, as if changing the words could erase their meaning, but each repetition cut deeper.
That evening Mark called again, his voice as steady as ever.
Everythings settled, Im back tomorrow. Want me to bring anything? he asked, as if speaking to a mate.
I froze. For a moment I wanted to say, Bring the truth, but instead I managed a breathy, Come. We need to talk.
He arrived the next day. The lorry rumbled into the drive outside the block, and I watched from the window as he stepped outtired, oblivious that this house was no longer his home. He entered, pulled me into an instinctive hug. I pushed away.
The woman from France called me, I said. She said she has a child with you.
A pale wash ran down his face, and he didnt try 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 slipped out of control. His voice cracked. At first it was just a friendly chat over coffee on the depots parking lot. Sometimes a man just needs someone to listen.
And then you fathered her child, I interrupted sharply. Thats enough.
He fell silent, unable to argue. After a pause he added, She didnt know I was married. 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.
Rage melted into something colder. I looked at him and felt only emptiness, as though I were watching the same man through a glass pane.
Why? I asked finally. We had everything.
Thats exactly why, he whispered. We had too much routine, not enough of us.
For the first time I understood that betrayal isnt always born of passion. Sometimes it sprouts from silence, from years of unspoken words, and it hurts just as sharply.
He left the kitchen, the scent of cold metal and diesel lingering behind him. The door shut, and I sank into a chair. The house was dead quiet. On the table sat 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 didnt call the next day, nor the one after. Then a text appeared: I need to think. Please dont lock the door. I didnt answer.
Later that night I turned on the computer and found her profileyoung, ordinary. In the photo she cradled a boy with dark eyes that mirrored Marks, and my heart clenched like a fist.
I couldnt look away. Then it hit me: her pain was different from mine, but it was real. She, too, lived a lie, a chapter hed written without anyones consent.
I closed the laptop, not a tear falling. I was simply exhausted, as if all those years had collapsed onto me at once.
Two weeks passed. The house was too quiet, the bed too wide. At first I waited for his call, for his truck to roll up, for that familiar stare that always disarmed my anger. He never came. Instead a plain envelope slipped through the doorhis handwriting jagged, as if penned in haste.
I’m not asking for forgiveness, it 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. Ill come back if you let me.
I read the letter over and over. Each sentence shifted tonesometimes remorse, sometimes excuse. I cant say whether the words the child is mine or Ill come back hurt more. How do you return to a place you burned yourself?
A few days later he stood at the door, thinner, a silver strand at his temples, a bag in his hand as if ready for anything.
I know I dont deserve this, he said. But I cant live without you.
I let him inside. 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 Im home, he replied quietly. She didnt want to stop me.
Nothing was resolved. No decision, no promisejust an emptiness hanging between us, unnamed.
Since then we sleep in separate rooms. He still cooks, tidies, fixes the little things he never seemed to notice before. I am learning to live with the knowledge that some things cant be patched back together, no matter how hard you try.
Sometimes, when I turn off the lights at night, I think of that boythe one with Marks eyesand wonder whether hell ever want to meet his father. Will I ever be able to forgive him before he forgives himself?
I dont know if I can love him again. I do know I cant keep living a lie. And though it hurts, that is the beginning of something real.
