My husband led a double life, I remember it now as if it were yesterday.
“You didn’t come home again last night, Edward,” I said, my voice steady but icy. Inside, I burned as if scalded.
“I… well, you know how it is, Em,” he stammered. “The clinic was chaos. An emergency patient…”
“An emergency patient?” I gave a bitter laugh. “Then why does your shirt smell of women’s perfume? And why did your Instagram show you active at three in the morning?”
He fell silent, avoiding my gaze. His habitual gesture followed—rubbing the bridge of his nose, a heavy sigh, eyes darting about.
“I’ll explain everything. Please, not now. Later, all right?”
I held my tongue, though every fibre screamed to shout, to hurl that shirt at him, to wound his pride. But I remained quiet.
We’d been married nine years. Our life was… ordinary, I suppose: a mortgage, our son James in Year Three, a joint bank account, and the ritual of brewing each other’s morning coffee. For six months now, though, I brewed mine alone. Edward left early for the “hospital” or returned late. Often, he was “on call.” My heart knew the truth: he was no hero in a white coat, but a liar with someone else.
The kettle whistled in the kitchen. I stood at the window, watching our neighbour kiss his wife goodbye and ruffle his daughter’s hair. A tremor of resentment shook me—why wasn’t that my life?
The warning signs had been subtle, expertly concealed. First, he disabled location tracking: “My phone’s lagging.” Then he stopped leaving belongings in the bathroom: “Sterility, darling—surgeon’s habit.” He guarded his mobile like treasure, even at home.
“Emily, don’t imagine things,” he’d soothe. “You know I adore you. Where would I find energy for another woman?”
While he showered, I took his phone. Even our cat knew the passcode. But his messages were empty—either deleted or hidden. Instagram? Just football pages and surgeon forums. Yet I was no fool.
*If you can’t catch the truth, find someone who knows.* So I turned to Simon, his younger brother—the one Edward met evenings for “drinks.”
“Simon? A quick question.”
“Emily! Hello! Is everything all right?”
“You saw Edward last night?”
“Er… sort of,” he hedged.
“Sort of. Right.” My voice hardened. “Drop the loyal-brother act. Was he with you?”
“No.” Simon exhaled. “I can’t cover for him anymore.” I froze. The moment had come. “So there’s another woman?”
“Not exactly…”
“Then what?”
He hesitated. “Emily… do you truly want this?”
Blood pounded in my temples. “Tell me. Now.”
“He has another family. In Croydon. A woman… and a son. He’s three.”
The world vanished. Silence roared in my ears. Simon’s apologies sounded muffled, distant. *A son. Three years of lies.* While I ferried James to clubs, ironed shirts, cooked Edward’s favourite lasagna, believing work consumed him. The naive wife—gold-medal fool.
“Where do they live?” My voice was steel.
“Emily, don’t do anything rash—”
“Where?” I demanded, locking eyes.
He surrendered. “A flat in Croydon. He rents it. He lies about staying with me.”
“Does she know about me?”
“Of course. He claims you’re just co-parenting for James’ sake.”
*Co-parenting.* Rage boiled inside me. *I’ll show you “sake,” Edward.*
That evening, I chopped salad while James did homework. A picture of domestic bliss. But I was already someone else.
When Edward returned, I kissed his cheek—a chance to study the traitor up close.
“Rough shift?”
“Exhausting,” he grunted, slumping at the table. “A perforated ulcer case. Grim work…”
“Edward… won’t your three-year-old son need you tonight?”
His spoon hovered over the soup. His face blank, then eyelids flickered.
“What did you say?” he whispered.
“You heard. I know everything. Croydon. The woman. The boy. The years of lies.”
He set down the spoon. Silence.
“Emily… I meant to tell you.”
“When? After Christmas? When your son rings me asking why Daddy’s absent?”
He stared at his hands.
“Do you love her?” I asked.
“I don’t know…”
“Do you love *me*?”
He looked away. That glance said everything.
I didn’t sleep that night. Neither did he, exiled to the sofa by my fury. Morning brought his packed suitcase.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“No. You are. Take your fantasies with you.”
“You’re strong, Emily. You’ll cope.”
“You’re weak. And oddly, that’s freeing.”
For weeks, Edward called, pleaded. “You can’t keep me from James! I never abandoned him!”
“You already did,” I said coldly. “Go live with your ‘emergency patient’ Catherine and her ‘diagnosis’ of your son.”
A solicitor uncovered his mischief: he’d legally acknowledged the boy, funded them from *our* account, even bought her a car. My rewards? Cheap carnations and robotic “I love yous.” Clever arrangement.
Curiosity undid me. I called Catherine.
“Hello? This is Emily. Your husband’s wife.”
A pause. “He told me you were only… neighbours.”
Spare me excuses. You’ve acquired a man who lies for years. Next season, you might inherit my spot.” I hung up.
Two months later, Edward appeared at our door, clutching flowers, chocolates, and wine.
“Emily, I see my error now. You and James are my family. Catherine was a mistake. I’m lost without you—”
I studied this stranger, wondering what catastrophe had driven him back.
“Edward… *I’m* not lost without you. Not anymore.”
He persisted—voicemail tears, whispers through the keyhole: “Forgive me… I’m weak… but with you, I live!”
*Alive? Let’s test that.*
I filed for divorce, Hollywood-style: proof of rented flats, mistress gifts, joint-account thefts. I turned arctic.
He received the papers at work. Colleagues murmured. His head consultant summoned him: “How could you jeopardise your reputation?”
Red-eyed and trembling, he confronted me. “Why do this?”
“Merely mirroring your lifestyle, Edward. Only now, *I’m* the scalpel.”
Then I invited Catherine for coffee.
“Madness!” she hissed across the table.
“Not at all,” I replied. “Meet the real Edward.” She paled as I showed her his photos with a younger woman.
“He swore I was his only—”
“You weren’t alone in that delusion. Welcome to the club.”
Within a week, Catherine evicted him. Soon he was sleeping on a friend’s sofa. A month later, I claimed half his surgical bonus as reparation.
He wept.
I flourished.
The ending? At James’s parents’ evening, I sat poised in scarlet lipstick. A pen slipped from my hand.
“Pardon,” said a man beside me, returning it. “Your script is lovely. I’m Matthew—Natalie’s father from Year Four.”
“Emily—James’s mum.”
His smile warmed me. And I thought: *Sometimes, one must become fiercely angry to become truly happy. But above all, honest with oneself.*
