One evening after ballet class, my five-year-old daughter told me she was getting a new mum—her dance instructor. I kept my composure, but her words didn’t sound like a joke. The more she spoke, the clearer it became—something was happening behind my back, something I hadn’t dared consider.
I gave up my dream for my daughter. Since childhood, I’d dreamed of becoming a professional ballroom dancer—the music, the elegance, the shimmering costumes. Dancing made me feel weightless, like I could fly. For a while, it seemed within reach.
I competed in local contests and trained tirelessly. Even after marrying James, I kept dancing, clinging to that dream. We hadn’t planned for a child so soon, but life had other ideas. When I learned I was pregnant, everything changed overnight.
My priorities shifted. I stopped dancing, thinking it would only be temporary. But once Poppy arrived, it was clear I couldn’t return. The time, energy, opportunities—all gone. I was a mum now.
Yet I never regretted it. Poppy was the greatest joy of my life—her tiny hands, her bright eyes, the way she said “Mummy.” She filled my heart in ways dancing never could. I loved her more than I thought possible.
But a dream, even shelved, never fully fades. Secretly, I hoped Poppy might love dance too.
So when she asked for lessons after James showed her videos of my performances, I nearly wept. I enrolled her that same day. A week later, she began.
But soon after, James grew distant—working late, silent at home. One night, I couldn’t stay quiet. “Do you hate Poppy dancing?” I asked across the kitchen table.
He looked startled. “No. Why would you think that?”
“You’ve been different. Late. Barely speaking. Like you’re miles away.”
He sighed. “Emily, it’s nothing to worry about.”
“But it is,” I insisted. “You never mention work. You eat in silence. You won’t even look at me.”
He leaned back. “Just busy. That’s all.”
“You’ve never liked dancing,” I said. “Not at our wedding. Not even at parties. I let it go. But now—does it bother you that Poppy dances?”
He shook his head. “No. I love seeing her happy. She beams after practice.”
“Then what’s wrong?” I pleaded.
A pause. “Nothing. You’re overthinking. Work will ease soon.”
He hugged me, stroking my hair like he used to. I closed my eyes, but unease lingered.
After that talk, things improved. James came home earlier, chatted more—lunch anecdotes, office banter, traffic gripes. I relaxed. Maybe I’d imagined it.
Then one afternoon, I borrowed his phone for a recipe. My battery was dead. As I typed, unfamiliar transactions appeared—no labels, just amounts and codes. I froze. James always told me his purchases. Always.
Our anniversary loomed. Maybe a surprise? A trip? A gift? I clung to that hope.
The next morning, I searched for clues. I shouldn’t have. It was wrong. But I had to know.
His office yielded nothing. Then, in our wardrobe—a crumpled shirt. Glitter. Pink, sticky glitter. The kind dancers wear.
I don’t own glitter. My hands trembled. Where had he been?
I texted him: We need to talk. Now.
I left the shirt on the bed, then fetched Poppy from school. She chattered about her day—drawings, playground squabbles. I nodded absently, my mind racing.
“Do I have ballet today?” she asked.
I hesitated. “I’m not sure Daddy can take you.”
Her face fell. “But I want to go!”
Her hopeful eyes undid me. I texted James: Forget it. Talk later.
When he arrived, I handed him Poppy’s bag without a word. He left silently.
Alone, I paced. Photos taunted me—our wedding, Poppy’s first steps, Christmases in matching pyjamas. It ached. I’d trusted him. Loved him. Now it crumbled.
The doorbell rang. It wasn’t James. Sophie, another dance mum, stood there with Poppy.
“James said he had errands,” Sophie explained. “I offered to bring her.”
I thanked her, then called James. No answer.
“Who are you calling?” Poppy asked.
“Daddy,” I said.
“Why? Because Coach Lucy’s my new mum now?”
I froze. “What?”
“Daddy hugs her lots. He said it’s our secret.”
My chest tightened. He’d done this in front of her.
“Pack your toys, love. We’re visiting Nana.”
At my parents’, I left Poppy, then drove to the studio.
I burst in. James and Lucy stood close, tension thick between them.
“Why does Poppy think Lucy’s her new mum?” I shouted.
Lucy paled. “What?”
“If you’re cheating,” I spat at James, “at least hide it from our child!”
“Emily,” Lucy cut in, “you’ve got this wrong.”
“No one asked you!” I snapped.
James stepped forward. “I’m not cheating. I’d never do that.”
“Then explain the money! The late nights! The glitter! Poppy saw you hugging Lucy!”
He rubbed his temples. “She misunderstood.”
“Children don’t lie! She thinks Lucy’s replacing me!”
Lucy edged away. “I won’t be involved in this.”
“But you’ll sleep with my husband?” I yelled.
“No one slept with anyone!” James roared. “I’ve been taking lessons—for you. To surprise you at our anniversary.”
The room spun. “What?”
“I hate dancing,” he admitted. “But it matters to you. So I wanted to learn.”
Shame flooded me. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“It was meant to be a surprise!”
“God, I’m a fool. Lucy, I’m so sorry.”
She nodded stiffly. “Poppy needs a new instructor.”
“But you’re brilliant,” I said.
“I won’t risk gossip,” she replied, leaving.
James took my hand. Outside, I sobbed. “I’m an idiot. How could I doubt you?”
“It’s alright,” he murmured, pulling me close. “But we need to talk.”
I clung to him, whispering, “I’ll trust you. Always.”
