During my husband’s birthday gathering, my son pointed at a guest and cried out, “That’s her! She’s wearing that skirt!”
A few days before my own birthday, I was searching through the upstairs cupboard. Oliver had pleaded with me for the picnic blanket for a school trip, and—naturally—I couldn’t refuse.
“Please, Mum,” he begged. “I already promised my mates I’d bring the blanket and fizzy drinks. And I said you’d bake those chocolate caramel fairy cakes too.”
So, as mothers do, I began rummaging. Old trunks, knotted cables, and fans from summers long past. Then, tucked behind the corner, I spotted it.
A black box. Smooth. Square. Hidden away like a well-kept secret.
I wasn’t prying, truly. But curiosity got the better of me. I drew it out, sat cross-legged on the rug, and carefully lifted the lid.
My breath caught.
Inside lay a satin skirt—deep violet, soft as a sigh, adorned with delicate hand-sewn embroidery along the hem. Exquisite.
And hauntingly familiar.
Months earlier, I’d shown it to James—my husband—as we wandered through the high street. We’d passed a boutique, and I’d gestured to the display. “Too extravagant,” I’d mused, though secretly I hoped he’d take notice.
“Every woman deserves a bit of luxury now and then,” he’d chuckled.
So when I found it, neatly folded in tissue, nestled in that box, I simply knew. This had to be my birthday gift. A quiet warmth spread through me.
Perhaps we were still all right.
Not wishing to spoil the surprise, I closed the lid, returned the box, and handed Oliver an old tartan throw instead. I even bought a blouse to match the skirt, stowing it in my drawer, biding my time.
My birthday came. Family gathered. James handed me a wrapped present with a cheeky grin.
Books.
A fine selection of novels, carefully chosen—but no skirt. Not a whisper of it.
I waited. Perhaps he was saving it for a romantic supper or a private moment.
That moment never arrived.
Days later, I crept back to the cupboard for another glance. But the box… was gone.
Just like that. Vanished.
Still, I held my tongue. I refused to be the sort of wife who doubted. Who leapt to bleak conclusions.
Hope, after all, keeps us afloat, even when wisdom tugs us under.
Three months slipped by. No sign of the skirt. Not a word. Only silence.
Then, one afternoon, as I prepared lemon tarts for a wedding order, Oliver entered the kitchen. His eyes darted anxiously, his shoulders tense.
“Mum?” he said quietly. “I’ve something to tell you. About the skirt.”
I set down the icing knife.
“I know Dad bought it,” he began. “When we went to the shops for my football boots, he told me to wait outside. Said he needed to fetch something.”
My stomach knotted.
“There was this one day,” Oliver continued, “I skipped a few lessons. Came home early to fetch my skateboard… but I heard voices upstairs. Thought it was you and Dad.”
He hesitated, swallowing hard.
“But you’re never home at that hour. I panicked. Hid under your bed.”
My heart broke for him.
“She laughed, Mum. It wasn’t you. I saw her legs. She was wearing the skirt.”
I stood rooted, the room tilting.
Then I reached out and pulled him close.
No child should bear such a secret.
Days later, we hosted James’s birthday. I cooked. I tidied. I arranged, decorated, and smiled.
I wore a navy frock and red lipstick. I slipped on heels I always regretted after an hour. And I played my part—dutiful wife, cheerful hostess, unshakable pillar.
Inside, I was coming undone.
The party hummed with chatter and music until Oliver appeared at my side, tugging my sleeve.
“Mum,” he whispered, eyes wide. “That’s her. The skirt. She’s wearing it.”
I followed his gaze.
Felicity.
James’s assistant. Standing by the wine table, radiant and poised in that unmistakable violet satin skirt.
The skirt he’d hidden.
The skirt I’d believed was meant for me.
She stood beside her husband, Edward, sipping her drink, her face flushed.
I lifted a tray of canapés and glided across the room with a smile.
“Felicity! That skirt is divine on you. Wherever did you find it?”
She blinked, startled. “Oh… thank you. It was a gift.”
“How lovely,” I said sweetly. “Funny—I had one just like it. Found it in my home once. Then it vanished.”
Her smile faltered.
Across the room, James watched us, stiff.
“Edward!” I called, beckoning him over. “Do join us. We were admiring Felicity’s skirt. James, you too!”
The four of us stood in a huddle. Felicity’s fingers trembled on her glass. Edward looked baffled. James looked shattered.
“I adored that skirt,” I said softly. “Thought it was meant for me. But now I see it was meant for another.”
James cleared his throat. “I gave it to Felicity. As a bonus. For her excellent work.”
“How thoughtful,” I replied evenly. “Was that for her performance at work… or for her visits to our bed at midday?”
Silence.
Edward stepped back from Felicity. Her lips parted, eyes brimming with shame.
“Don’t drag Oliver into this,” James muttered.
“Too late,” I said. “He already was.”
Guests had begun to notice. The room stilled. Whispers faded. The truth hung thick in the air.
That night, once everyone had gone, I told James: “I want a divorce.”
There was no pleading. No apology. Only quiet acceptance.
The papers were signed soon after. He moved to a cramped flat.
Felicity, I heard, returned to her parents’ home.
Oliver asked if I was all right. I told him yes—until he believed it.
I began to live again.
Morning strolls with no fixed path. Baking for pleasure, not just orders. Tea with old friends I’d let drift away. Laughter in places I’d forgotten.
I even bought that skirt. Not just in violet—but in every shade they had.
Because from now on, if anyone’s going to love me as I ought to be loved, it’s myself.
