“I Know About Your Affairs,” Said His Wife. Victor Went Cold. No, he didn’t flinch. He didn’t even pale—though inside, everything clenched up tight, like scrap paper before it’s tossed into the bin. He simply froze. Lorraine stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. The usual picture—back to her husband, a polka-dot apron, the smell of sizzling onions. Cosy, homely. But her voice, her voice was as cold and matter-of-fact as a BBC newsreader. Victor even wondered if he’d misheard. Maybe she was talking about the cucumbers—knew a good place to buy them? Or the neighbour from upstairs who’s selling his car? But no. “All your affairs,” Lorraine repeated, not turning around. That’s when the chill really hit him. Because in her tone, there wasn’t a trace of hysteria or accusation. None of what he’d dreaded—no tears, no broken crockery. Just a plain statement, as if she’d announced they were out of milk. Victor had been on this earth for fifty-two years. Twenty-eight of those with this woman. Knew her as well as his own hands: the mole on her left shoulder, the way she wrinkles her nose when tasting soup, the sigh she gives in the morning. But he had never heard that tone from her. “Lorraine—” he began, but his voice gave out. He coughed. Tried again. “Lorraine, what are you talking about?” She turned. Looked at him for a long moment, calm, as if seeing him for the first time. Or rather, as if she was looking at an old photograph that had faded beyond recognition. “About, say… Marianne from Accounts,” she said. “2018, if I’m not mistaken.” Victor felt the ground disappear beneath his feet. Not a figure of speech—he really felt as if he was floating, unsupported. God. Marianne?! He could hardly remember her face. There’d been something—at a work do? Or afterwards? Brief, nothing serious. He’d promised himself: never again. “And Sophie,” Lorraine continued, unruffled. “The one from the gym, who came up to you. That was two years ago.” He opened his mouth. Closed it again. And how did she know about Sophie? Lorraine turned off the heat. Removed her apron—neatly, calmly, folded it in half. Sat down at the kitchen table. “Do you want to know how I found out?” she asked. “Or is it more important to you why I haven’t said anything?” Victor was silent. Not because he didn’t want to speak—because he couldn’t. “The first time,” Lorraine began, “was nearly ten years ago. You started staying late at work. Fridays especially. Came home cheerful, a spark in your eyes. Smelled of perfume.” She gave a humourless little smile. “I thought: maybe I’m imagining things? Maybe someone in the office got new perfume? Lied to myself for a whole month. Then I found the receipt in your jacket pocket—a dinner for two. Wine. Dessert. We’ve never even been to that restaurant, the two of us.” Victor wanted to say something—to explain, to lie, as he always did. But the words stuck in his throat. “You know what I did?” Lorraine looked him in the eyes. “Cried in the bathroom. Then washed my face. Made dinner. Greeted you with a smile. Didn’t say a word to our daughter—she was fifteen then. Exams. First love. Why let her know her dad…” She fell silent. Ran her hand across the table, as if wiping away invisible dust. “I thought: I’ll get over it. It’ll pass. All men go through a midlife crisis—hormones, stupidity. He’ll come back, it’s fine. The main thing is the family stays together.” “Lorraine—” Victor forced out. “No,” she cut him off. “Let me finish.” He obeyed. “Then there was a second. A third. A fourth. I stopped counting. Your phone—never had a password. Thought I didn’t look? I read the messages. Those silly texts: ‘Miss you, bunny,’ ‘You’re the best.’ The photos—how you hugged them, grinned. Her voice faltered—but only for a moment. Then she pulled herself together. Took a deep breath. “And I’d ask myself: what’s the point? Why live with someone who doesn’t love me?” “I do love you!” Victor blurted. “Lorraine, I—” “No,” she said firmly. “You don’t. You love convenience. A tidy flat. A hot dinner. Ironed shirts. The kind of wife who doesn’t ask questions.” She stood up. Walked to the window. Stood, looking out into the darkness. “Do you know when I made my decision?” she asked, not turning. “A month ago. Our daughter came home for the weekend. We sat in the kitchen, drinking tea. She said, ‘Mum, you’re different. Quiet. Not yourself, somehow.’ And I thought: my God, she’s right. I really don’t feel like myself. It’s been ten years since I lived for me.” Victor looked at her stiff, straight back—and suddenly realised: he was losing her. Not might lose—he was losing. Here and now. “I don’t want a divorce,” he croaked. “Lorraine, please.” “But I do,” she answered simply. “The papers are in. The hearing’s in a month.” “But why now?!” Victor exploded. “Why not before?!” Lorraine turned. Looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then smiled, sadly. “Because I realised: you never betrayed me, Vic. Because you can only betray someone who matters to you. And for you, I was just… there. Always. Like air.” And that was the truth. Victor sat on the sofa—hunched, suddenly ten years older. Lorraine stood by the front door. Between them: twenty-eight years of marriage, a grown daughter, a flat where every corner remembered them both. And a chasm. Huge, unbridgeable. “You know,” he said quietly, “I’ll be lost without you.” “You won’t,” she broke in. “You’ll manage. Somehow.” “No!” He sprang up, stepped towards her. “Lorraine, I’ll change! I swear! No more—” “Vic,” she raised a hand, stopping him. “It’s not about them. Not at all.” “Then what is it?” She paused. Gathering words—ones she’d wanted to say for years, but was afraid. Or didn’t know how. Or maybe just never thought she deserved to be heard. “You know how I felt? Every time you came back from one of your Mariannes or Sophies—I’d lie beside you and feel completely invisible. You didn’t even try to hide it! Your phone in plain sight. Shirts tossed into the laundry with lipstick on the collar. You honestly thought I was a fool. Blind.” Victor swayed, as if struck. “I didn’t mean—” “Didn’t mean?” She stepped right up to him. There were tears glimmering—not of sorrow, but of fury. Years, decades of fury, finally breaking the surface. “You simply didn’t think of me at all. What did you think as you kissed someone else? ‘My wife won’t find out?’ Or ‘What difference does it make?’” He was silent. Because the truth was worse. He really hadn’t thought of her. At all. Lorraine was just a given in his life. He was certain: she wasn’t going anywhere. She always would be. “You’d come home after your little adventures and feel fine. Because in your mind, nothing had changed. Wife—check. Family—check. All good.” She turned away. “But I wasn’t there. Not in your world. Not at all.” Victor stepped forward. Reached out—to touch her shoulder, to hold her, to keep her. Lorraine pulled away. “Don’t,” she said wearily. “It’s too late.” He grabbed her hands instead. “Lorraine, please! Give me a chance! I’ll change! I swear it!” She looked at their entwined fingers. At his face—drawn, desperate. And suddenly understood: he really was afraid. Only not of losing her. He was afraid to be alone. “You know,” she said quietly, freeing her hands, “I was afraid too. Afraid to be alone. Without you. Without family. But you know what I realised?” She took her bag from the table. Keys. “I’ve already been alone. For years. With you beside me—but alone.” And headed for the door. Three weeks later. Victor sat in an empty flat—Lorraine had moved in with their daughter right after that conversation—and flicked through his phone. Marianne from Accounts. Sophie from the gym. Two, three other names in his contacts, once meaningful. He dialled Sophie’s number. She hung up. He texted Marianne—read, no reply. The rest didn’t even open it. Funny—when he was a married man, they’d all wanted to see him. Now, suddenly single… Nobody wanted him. He sat on that sofa, in a flat that now felt enormous and alien—and, for the first time in fifty-two years, truly felt alone. He picked up the phone again. Found “Lorraine.” Stared at the screen for a long time. His fingers trembled. Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted. Then, finally, simply wrote: “Can I see you?” Reply came an hour later: “Why?” Victor paused. What could he say? “Sorry”? Too late. “Come back”? Pathetic. “I’ve changed”? A lie. He told the truth: “I want to start again. May I try?” Three dots flickered. Disappeared. Reappeared. Finally, a reply: “Come round on Saturday. To our daughter’s. Two o’clock. We’ll talk.” Victor exhaled. He didn’t know what would happen. Whether she’d forgive him. Whether she’d ever come back. If he even deserved a second chance. He looked at his wedding ring. And, for the first time in years, felt truly ready to start afresh. If she’d let him. Should Lorraine have turned a blind eye to her husband’s affairs? Or should she have confronted the truth and drawn the line at the first betrayal? What do you think?

I know about your little adventures, said his wife. Matthew went cold.

No, he didnt flinch. Didnt turn paleeven though inside it felt like his insides had been scrunched up into a tight ball, like the scrap of paper you crumple up right before tossing away. He just froze.

Claire was at the hob, stirring something in a pot. Same old stanceback to her husband, apron dotted with tiny blue spots, the scent of fried onions drifting through the kitchen. It all looked warm and homely enough. But her voicethat was straight from the evening news. Calm, formal, almost detached.

Matthew actually wondered if hed misheard her. Maybe shed said something about the cucumberslike, I know where you can get fresh ones down at the market. Or perhaps about the chap from the top floor who was selling his car?

But no.

All of your escapades, Claire repeated, this time so evenly that any hope hed misunderstood vanished.

Thats when the real chill swept through him. Because there was nothing dramatic or hysterical about her tone, none of the weeping, accusations, or slamming of plates that hed always dreaded. She simply stated it like she might have said they were out of milk.

Matthew was fifty-two, and hed spent twenty-eight years with the same woman. He knew her inside outthe mole on her left shoulder, how she wrinkled her nose tasting soup, the way she sighed first thing in the morning. But he had never, ever heard her speak to him like this.

Claire he started, but his voice barely worked.

He coughed awkwardly, tried again.

What are you talking about?

She turned to face him. Looked at himlong and slow, as if she were looking at a photograph she couldnt quite recognise anymore.

Well, lets take Lucy from accounts, for instance. That was, what, 2018? she said.

Matthew felt like the floor had dropped out beneath him. And not in a manner of speakinghe genuinely felt as if he were dangling in mid-air.

Lucy? Oh God.

He could barely even picture her face. Thered been some silly thing after a work do, hadnt there? Or maybe later? Anyway, it hadnt meant anything at all. Hed sworn to himself never again, right there and then.

And then Susan, Claire continued, voice impossibly steady. That woman from the gym who chatted you up. That was two years ago, wasnt it?

His mouth hung open, but no words came out.

How on earth did she know about Susan?

Claire turned off the cooker, took her apron offnice and neat, folded it in half. She sat down at the kitchen table.

Would you like to know how I found out? Or is it more important why I didnt say anything until now? she asked.

Matthew sat silent. Not because he didnt want to talkhe simply couldnt.

The very first time, Claire started, was actually a good ten years ago. You started coming home late from work. Especially on Fridays. You were all cheerful, eyes sparkling. Smelled of unfamiliar perfume.

She gave a dry, almost bitter smile.

I thought maybe I was imagining it. Maybe someone at work had started wearing a new scent. I convinced myself for a month. Then I found a restaurant receipt in the pocket of your jacketdinner for two. Wine. Dessert. Wed never eaten there together.

He wanted to say something, make up an excuse, lie like usual. But the words wouldnt budge.

Do you know what I did? she asked, meeting his eye. Had a cry in the bathroom. Washed my face. Cooked dinner. Smiled when you came home. Didnt say a word to our daughtershe was fifteen then. Exams. Her first boyfriend. Why would I want her knowing her dad was She stopped herself, swiped her hand across the table as if wiping away invisible dust.

Thought I could get over it. That these things pass. Midlife crisis, hormones, stupidity. Figured as long as you came home, that was all right. Family comes first.

Claire Matthew managed, voice raspy.

No, let me finish, she cut in. Just let me finish.

He shut up.

Then you did it again. And again. Eventually I stopped counting. Your phone never had a password. Did you honestly think I wouldnt look? I read your messages. Those stupid textsMiss you, darling, Youre the best. Saw the photos, you grinning, arms around them. Her voice finally wobbled. But she steadied herself, took a deep breath.

All those nights, Id wonder why am I doing this? Why stay with someone who doesnt actually love me?

I do love you! It burst out, automatic. Claire, I

No, you dont, she told him flatly. You love convenience. A tidy home. Hot dinner. Ironed shirts. A woman who doesnt ask awkward questions.

She stood, went over to the window, looking out into the dusk.

Do you know when I finally made up my mind? she asked, still not facing him. A month ago. Our daughter came over for the weekend. We were at the table, having tea. She looks at me and says: Mum, youve gone quiet its like youre not really yourself anymore. And I realisedshe was right. I havent been myself for years. Ive not lived for myself in God knows how long.

Matthew looked at her straight back and realisedhe wasnt about to lose her. He was losing her. Right then and there.

I dont want to get divorced, he croaked. Claire, please.

But I do, she replied simply. The papers are already in. The hearings in a month.

But why now? he exploded. Why now?

She turned. Met his eyes, held them, and managed a sad little smile.

Because I realised you never really betrayed me, Matt. You have to care about someone to betray them. I was just always there. Like the air.

And it was true.

He sank onto the settee, suddenly feeling a good ten years older. Claire stood by the hallway door. Between them stretched twenty-eight years of marriage, a grown-up daughter, this flat where every corner held their memories. And a chasm. A proper, bottomless chasm.

You do see, dont you, he said quietly, that Im lost without you?

Youll get by, she said, brisk, almost kind. You always do.

No! He sprang up, crossed to her. Claire, I will change. I swear. Never again

Matt, she raised a hand, stopping him. Its not about them. Not really.

Then what is it?

She paused, considering, hunting for the words shed wanted to say for years but never dared. Maybe shed never believed she was allowed to say them.

Do you know what it was like for me? Every time you came home after yet another Lucy or Susan, Id lie next to you and feel completely invisible. You barely even tried to hide ityou left your phone lying open, chucked your shirts in the wash basket, lipstick on the collar. You actually thought I was blind and stupid, didnt you?

Matthew felt like shed just struck him.

I never meant to

Didnt mean to? She came closer. Her eyes were flashingnot tears, but pure bottled-up fury. You just never thought of me at all. What did you think as you kissed another woman? My wife will never notice? Or was it just, what does it matter?

He stood silent.

Because the truth was worse.

He really hadnt thought about her at all. Claire had existed in his life like something he could always rely on, a given. Hed been sure she would never leave. That she would always be there.

Youd come home after your little escapades and you were fine. Because in your mind, the picture hadnt changed. Wife at home, family together, everything just so.

She turned away again.

But I wasnt in that picturenot really.

Matthew took a step. Reached for her shoulder, as if to touch, hug, hold.

Claire pulled away.

Dont, she said, tired. Its too late.

He grabbed her hands.

Claire, please! Give me a chance! Let me make it up! I can change!

She looked at their entwined fingers, then at his face, still twisted with fear. And she knew: he really was afraid. Just not of losing her.

He was terrified of being alone.

You know, she said softly, pulling her hands away, I was scared too. Scared to be on my own. Without you. Without family. But do you know what I realised?

She grabbed her bag and keys from the table.

Ive been alone for ages. Ages. Even with you hereI was alone.

And off she went, to the door.

Three weeks passed.

Matthew sat in his now-empty flatClaire had moved in with their daughter straight awayand scrolled through his phone. Lucy from accounts. Susan from the gym. A couple more numbers saved under names which, once upon a time, had meant something.

He called Susan.

She ignored him.

Texted Lucyshe read the message but didnt reply.

The others didnt even open his texts.

Funny thing, isnt it? When he was a married man, they all seemed keen enough to see him. Now, apparently single, apparently free

No one cared at all.

He sat there on the sofa, in a flat that suddenly seemed enormous and unfamiliar, and felt truly, properly alone for the very first time in all his fifty-two years.

He picked up his phone again. Found Claire in his contacts. Stared at the name. His hands shook.

Tried typing a message. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted it.

Finally he wrote, simply: Can we meet?

An hour later, she replied: Why?

Matthew hesitated. What to say? Im sorry? Too late. Come back? Sounds pathetic. Ive changed? Outright untrue.

He decided to be honest:

I want to start over. Can we try?

Three little dots flashed, disappeared, flashed again.

Then her reply:

Come Saturday. To our daughters. Two oclock. Well talk.

Matthew let out a long breath.

He had no idea what would happen. Whether shed forgive, whether shed come back, whether he deserved a second chance at all.

He glanced down at his wedding ring.

And for the first time in years, he felt readyreally readyto start afresh.

If shed allow it.

Do you reckon Claire was right to keep quiet all those years? Maybe she shouldve nipped it in the bud right at the first affair, made a scene, called him out then and there. What do you think?