I’ve been married for four years, and my husband has been nothing short of the perfect partner—hardly a single serious argument between us.
Lately, we’ve been thinking about starting a family. We’ve been trying, planning, but no luck yet. The issue lies with my hormonal imbalance, but even then, he’s never once blamed me. We agreed that if conceiving naturally doesn’t work, we’d consider adoption.
I thought we had the closest thing to a perfect marriage—except maybe for the missing spark, that intense passion that might’ve made it truly ideal.
I have a close friend, Sophie, who’s still single, so we spend a fair bit of time together, often going shopping. She’s beautiful—takes care of herself, hits the gym regularly, and earns well. She and my husband, James, know each other too—they go to the same gym, but their schedules hardly overlap.
I’ve never been the jealous type. I trusted him—until the day everything shattered. It was nearly time for James to return from his workout, so I popped out to grab some bread for dinner. And there, between the aisles, was the ugliest sight—James wasn’t just chatting with Sophie. His arm was around her. The moment they saw me, they sprang apart, but it was too late. I’d seen enough. Tears burning, I ran out of the store, James chasing after me.
Outside, he swore nothing had happened, that they’d just been standing close, and I must’ve imagined it. He sounded so convincing—part of me wanted to believe him. But I couldn’t.
Back home, I packed a bag and drove straight to my parents’ house. I didn’t tell Mum or Dad—they’ve got fiery tempers, and my father would’ve marched straight over to sort things out. Now I’m here, trying to figure out what comes next. There’s no solid reason for divorce, but I can’t honestly say I still love him, either.
Sophie keeps calling, but I can’t bring myself to speak to her. Who knows what she’d say? If she starts insisting I imagined the whole thing, it’ll only make things worse. I don’t trust her anymore. Maybe she’s just trying to cover her own tracks.
