My Husband’s Double Life
“You didn’t sleep here again, Ian,” I said, my voice calm, almost chilly. Inside, though, I was boiling like a kettle.
“I was… well, you know, Laura, utter chaos at the surgery. An emergency patient…”
“Patient?” I raised an eyebrow. “Then why does your shirt smell like expensive perfume, and your phone shows you scrolling Instagram at 3 AM?”
He stayed quiet. Looked away. Then, just like always – rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighed, started shuffling his feet.
“I’ll explain everything. Just… not now, okay? Don’t start.”
I didn’t start. Even though I wanted to scream. To throw that smelly shirt back at him. To kick his precious ego. But… I didn’t start.
We’d been married 9 years. The usual picture: mortgage, an eight-year-old son in Year 3, a shared bank account, and the habit of making each other morning coffee. But for months now, it was only me making my own coffee. He’d leave early, claiming hospital calls, or come home late. Sometimes even “on call”. But my gut screamed: he wasn’t some hero surgeon. He was a liar. And he had someone else.
The kettle whistled in the kitchen. I stood by the window, watching our neighbour kiss his wife goodbye and ruffle his daughter’s hair. A pang of envy shook me: Why not me? Why didn’t I get that?
I missed the early signs. He was slick. First, he turned off his phone location: “battery drain”. Stopped leaving stuff in the bathroom: “sterility, Laura, surgeon’s habit”. Glued to his mobile, even at home.
“Laura, don’t go overboard,” he’d say. “You know I love you. Where would I find the energy for another woman?”
While he showered, I grabbed his phone. Even our cat, Marmalade, knew the passcode. But his messaging apps? Empty. Either scrubbed clean or he used something else. Instagram? Just football pages and a couple of surgeon colleagues.
But I wasn’t born yesterday. And I wasn’t someone’s fool.
“If you can’t catch the truth, find someone who knows it.”
I reckoned that someone might be… his younger brother, Alex. The one Ian kept “meeting up” with lately.
“Hi Alex. Got a couple of questions.”
“Oh, Laura! Hi! Everything alright?”
“You met Ian last night?”
“Er…” he hesitated. “Sort of…”
Right. Sort of. Got it.
“Alex, don’t play ‘family friend’. Just tell me – was he with you?”
“No,” he breathed out. “Sorry. I can’t cover for him anymore.”
I froze. This was it.
“So… there’s another woman?”
Alex looked away.
“Not exactly…”
“What then?”
He stalled.
“Laura, are you sure you want to know?”
I felt heat rush to my head.
“Talk. Now.”
“Laura… he’s got a whole other life. Over in Crawley. Another family. Emma. And… a son. He’s three.”
I turned to stone. Like someone dumped me in a vacuum.
Deaf and dumb, probably. Alex babbled apologies, but his words sounded muffled, like through cotton wool.
A son. Ian has a son.
So he’d been lying for three years. THREE YEARS. While I drove our Arthur to swimming lessons, ironed Ian’s shirts, cooked his favourite shepherd’s pie, and believed work was just tough. Naïve. Silly. Wife-certified half-wit.
“Where does she live?” I asked Alex, tears dried, shaking stopped.
“Laura… don’t do anything stupid.”
“Where. Does. She. Live?” I repeated, staring him down.
He cracked.
“Flat in Crawley. He rents it. Sometimes he tells you he’s with me, but goes to them.”
“And she knows about me?”
“Course. But… he told her you live like neighbours. Staying together for Arthur’s sake.”
Oh, staying together. Right. Listen here, Ian, I’ll show you ‘staying together’. Inside, I raged. Had to hold it back.
That night, I cooked dinner as usual. Arthur did homework at the kitchen table while I chopped salad. A picture-perfect family ad. Except I was a different person now.
When Ian came home, I greeted him with my usual peck on the cheek. Only now, I did it to see the traitor’s face up close.
“Rough shift?”
“Exhausting,” he mumbled, sitting down. “Perforated ulcer. Messy…”
“Ian… don’t you need to see your three-year-old son after dinner?”
He froze. His spoon stopped above his soup. Face blank. Then, eyelids flickered.
“What did you say?” he whispered.
“You heard. I know everything. About Crawley. About Emma. And the child. And the lies. The betrayal.”
He put his spoon down. Silence.
“Laura… I meant to tell you.”
“When? On Pancake Day? Or next Christmas? When your kid phoned me saying ‘Auntie, why didn’t Daddy come?'”
He stayed silent.
“Ian, truth – do you love her?” The big question.
“Dunno…”
“Do you love *me*?”
He stayed silent and looked away.
Enough said. That sideways glance said it all.
I didn’t sleep that night. Hardly surprising. Him? Probably not either. I’d turfed him out of our bedroom bang on time – he was on the sofa. Next morning, I packed a bag for him.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“No, I’m staying. You’re leaving. With your bags and your fantasies.”
“Laura, you’re strong. You’ll cope.”
“And you’re weak. Funny thing is, that feels freeing too.”
Two weeks later. Ian called, texted, begged to meet.
“You can’t stop me seeing Arthur!” he yelled down the phone. “I haven’t abandoned him…”
“You already abandoned Arthur. Now abandon us completely. Go. Live with your ’emergency patient’ Chloe and her diagnosis: ‘your son’.”
I hired a solicitor. Found out he’d legally claimed the other boy. Transferred money *from our joint account*. Even bought Emma a car! Me? Flowers on Mum’s Day and robotic “I love you”s. Nicely set up!
Curiosity got the better of me. I rang her. The other one.
“Hello? Is that Chloe?”
“Speaking. Who’s this?”
“The woman sharing her husband with you.”
Silence.
“Laura?”
“Got it. Surprised?”
“I thought… he said… you were…”
“Save it. Just know this: you’re getting a man who lies for years. Next season? You might be standing where I am.”
I hung up.
Two months later, Ian appeared on my doorstep. Flowers, chocolates, a bottle of red wine.
“Laura, I get it. Please forgive me. You and Arthur are my family. Chloe was a mistake. I miss you terribly. I can’t live without you…”
I looked at him like a
And with the sound of the lock clicking firmly shut between us, I finally understood what freedom smelled like – suspiciously similar to that dusty bottle of supermarket Merlot he’d left on my doorstep and the faint whiff of regret wafting through the letterbox.
