“Thanks, Johnny-poo! Honestly, what would I do without you?” lit up the screen of her husband’s phone—right in Emily’s hands.
Her eyes flicked to the sender: *Marianne*. The cutesy heart emoji at the end made her stomach flip.
Marianne? *Johnny-poo?* She might’ve brushed it off as some distant cousin or coworker—except for one glaring issue: her husband, John, had never once mentioned a Marianne. Or had he?
She sucked in a breath. Investigate first, freak out later. But her heart wasn’t playing by logic.
“Who’s Marianne?” Emily asked, her voice steady—mostly.
John, mid-sip of tea, blinked. “Who?”
“Marianne,” she ground out shoving the phone under his nose.
His face twitched. He sighed.
“Oh. That’s just Marina.”
Emily’s jaw tightened.
“*Just* Marina?”
“Yeah. My ex. Nothing serious there anymore.”
She set his phone down with deliberate calm.
“Your *ex* is calling you *Johnny-poo* and sending heart emojis like a lovesick teenager?”
He shrugged, as if discussing the weather. “Yeah. She needed a loan. I helped her out.”
A wave of disbelief hit her. “You gave *money* to your ex?”
“Yeah? What’s the big deal?”
“The *big deal*?” Emily mimicked. “Are you kidding? You’re using *our* money to fund your ex’s emergencies now?”
John finally looked up, exasperated. “Emily, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ve known each other forever. Why *wouldn’t* I help her?”
She laughed—sharp, humorless. “You’re *married*, John. To *me*. Not her.”
He sighed like she was a toddler refusing to grasp basic maths. “We didn’t end badly. She’s not a stranger.”
“And what am I, then?”
Silence. Emily exhaled through her nose.
“How long has this been going on?”
“What, exactly?”
“This cozy little arrangement.”
John glanced away. “We’ve always caught up. Even before you. Just didn’t mention it—didn’t want you overreacting.”
Her blood turned icy. “So two years of *omissions*?”
“It’s not hiding if it wasn’t a secret. I’m not cheating, Em. Calm down.”
She clenched her fists. “How often do you *help* her?”
“Occasionally. Small stuff. Fixing her Wi-Fi, assembling furniture.”
“So my *husband* moonlights as her personal handyman?”
“Oh, for—” He threw his hands up. “Yes, I helped! So what? I’d do the same for anyone!”
Emily stared at him, dead-eyed. “If you honestly can’t see the issue, we’ve got *very* different ideas of marriage.”
She walked out.
The next weeks painted a clear picture. John’s “late work nights” lined up neatly with *Marina’s* emergencies.
“I’m popping round Marina’s tonight,” he announced over dinner. “Her washing machine’s leaking.”
Emily dropped her fork. “Are you the only bloke in *London* who knows how to fix appliances?”
“God, it’s not *hard*—”
“For *you*, maybe. For me? It’s exhausting.”
“Here we go again!”
“*Yes*, again,” she snapped. “Because your *ex* has an *uncanny* knack for disasters. At least you don’t share kids.”
John rolled his eyes and kept eating.
Three days later, Marina struck again.
“Marina rang,” John said casually. “Needs a lift for her new fridge.”
Emily turned slowly. “You’re seriously dropping everything to play delivery boy?”
“What’s the problem?”
“Are you *trying* not to see it?”
“You’re the one making it a circus!”
“No, *you* centre-stage in *her* circus. If you’re so desperate to be her knight in shining armour, get a *flat* there. Save on petrol.”
“You’re *kicking* me out?”
“No. I’m *letting* you choose. Us, or her.”
She left before he could spin it into another “overreaction.”
Two days later, he strolled back in like nothing happened.
“Had your tantrum?” he asked.
Emily stared. “You vanish, then swan back like *I’m* the issue?”
“Honestly, Em, you’re *exhausting*.”
Her hands curled. “I won’t stay in a relationship with a *third* person.”
“There *is* no third person!”
“Fine,” she said, cold. “Then stop seeing Marina. Or we divorce.”
He froze. “*Divorce*? Over *this*?”
“If it’s *nothing*, then *prove* it.”
He scoffed. “You’re *really* leaving?”
“Already packed.”
She walked out. He didn’t stop her.
A week later, her mother sighed. “Love, you’re too harsh. He’s just *kind*.”
Emily laughed bitterly. “*Kind*? Or *not over her*?”
“Decent men don’t grow on trees, sweetheart. Is this *really* your hill to die on?”
Emily said nothing. It wasn’t just Marina—it was John’s utter refusal to *try*.
On day ten, his call came.
“Cooled down yet?”
Her grip on the phone tightened. “Think I’ll just *get over it*?”
“Worth a shot.”
She closed her eyes. Crystal clear.
“You *still* don’t get why I left?”
“Over *nothing*?”
Emily smiled, hollow. “Right. *Nothing*.” She paused. “I’m filing for divorce.”
Silence. Then—
“Fine. Your loss.”
She hung up. For the first time in months, she *breathed*.
One door closes. Another opens.
