The Secret Life of My Husband

My husband never came home that night. My voice sounded calm, chilled almost. Inside, I was scalded.
“Emergency case at St. Vincent’s,” he mumbled, shuffling. “Absolute chaos…”
“Case?” A bitter laugh escaped me. “Then why does your shirt smell of perfume? And why was your Instagram active at 3 AM?”
He stared at his shoes. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. The usual act. “Emmeline, let me explain. Just… not now, alright? Please?”
I didn’t argue. Though I burned to scream, to claw, to hurl that shirt back at him. Shatter his pride. But… I stayed quiet.
Nine years married. The usual slog: mortgage, our lad Tom in Year 4, a joint bank account, the ritual morning coffee. For nearly half a year, though, I’d made only my own. He’d vanish early, supposedly to the hospital, or stagger home late. Sometimes even “on call”. My heart knew the truth. The surgeon in the white coat was a liar. Someone else existed.
The kettle whistled. I watched our neighbour kiss his wife goodbye, ruffle his daughter’s hair. A tremor of pure envy shook me. Why not me? Why wasn’t that my life?
I’d missed the subtle clues. Masterful deception. Location off: “Phone’s slow.” His razor vanished from the bathroom: “Sterility, Em, surgeon, you know.” The phone glued to his palm, even at home.
“Don’t overthink it,” he’d soothe. “You know I adore you. Another woman? I’m knackered enough keeping up with you.”
While he showered, I took his phone. Our cat probably knew the passcode. Messengers were eerily empty – either scrubbed clean or secret chats elsewhere. Instagram? Just football pages and surgeons. But I wasn’t born yesterday. Not someone you lead on a merry dance.
*If you can’t catch the truth, find who knows it.*
Perhaps… his younger brother, Ben. The one Jeremy met so often “for a pint”.
“Ben? Em here. Quick question.”
“Emmeline! Hello. Everything alright?”
“You saw Jeremy last night?”
“Um…” He stalled. “Suppose… sort of.”
Right. *Sort of*.
“Ben, drop the loyal brother act. Was he *with* you?”
“No,” he breathed out. “Sorry. Can’t cover for him anymore.”
I froze. This was it.
“So… there’s another woman?”
Ben looked away.
“Not quite…”
“What then?”
He hesitated. “Em… you certain you want the whole story?”
Blood roared in my ears. “Spit. It. Out. Now.”
“He isn’t just seeing someone else… Em, he’s living two lives. Over in Swindon… another family. A woman. And… a son. He’s three.”
I turned to stone. Sucked into a vacuum. Deaf and mute. Ben’s fading voice sounded muffled, distant.
*Three years old.*
Meaning three years of lies. THREE YEARS. While I ferried Tom to rugby practice, ironed Jeremy’s shirts, made his favourite lasagne, believing it was just NHS burnout. Pathetic. Ludicrous. Wifely idiot, first class.
“Where does she live?” My voice was flat, steady.
“Emmeline… don’t do anything daft.”
“Where. Does. She. Live?” My eyes locked on his.
He caved. “A flat in Swindon. He rents it. Tells you he’s crashing at mine? He’s with them.”
“Does she know about *me*?”
“Course. But… he spun her that you two were just flatmates. Staying together for Tom’s sake.”
*Flatmates.* Right then, Jeremy? I’ll show you *flatmates*. Fury boiled inside. I leashed it hard.
That evening, I cooked as if nothing happened. Tom did homework at the table while I chopped salad. A perfect advert for domestic bliss. But I was someone else now.
When Jeremy came home, I met him as usual – a peck on the cheek. Now, it was to see the betrayer’s face up close.
“Long shift?”
“Exhausting,” he grunted, slumping down. “Bloke with a perforated stomach. Grim business…”
“Jeremy… don’t you need to get over to your three-year-old? After tea?”
He froze. His spoon hovered over the soup. Face blank. Then, his eyelids flickered.
“What did you say?” he whispered.
“What you heard. I know everything. Swindon. The woman. The boy. The lies. The betrayal.”
He lowered the spoon. Silence stretched.
“Emmeline… I meant to tell you.”
“When? On Friday? Or when pigs fly? Or when your boy rings me himself saying ‘Aunty, where’s Dad?’?”
He stayed mute.
“Tell me straight, Jeremy. Do you love her?”
“Dunno…”
“Do you love *me*?”
He looked away.
That glance said it all.
Sleep was impossible that night. He probably didn’t either, banished to the sofa after I turfed him out of our room. Come morning, I packed a bag.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Nope. I’m staying. *You’re* leaving. With your bags and your fairy tales.”
“You’re tough, Em. You’ll cope.”
“You’re weak. Oddly… that’s freeing too.”
Two weeks passed. Jeremy called. Messaged. Begged for meetings.
“You can’t stop me seeing Tom!” he yelled down the phone. “I haven’t abandoned him!”
“You already did. Now abandon us completely. Go live with your ‘emergency case’ called Chloe and her diagnosis: *Son*.”
I hired a solicitor. Learned he’d legally acknowledged the boy. Diverted money from *our* account. Even bought *her* a car. Me? Flowers on Mothering Sunday and robotic “love yous”. Cosy little set-up.
Curiosity finally won. I rang her. The other one.
“Hello? Chloe?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“The one sharing your husband.”
Silence.
“Emmeline?”
“Got it. Surprised?”
“I thought… he said… you were…”
“Save it. Just remember: you’ve got a man who lies for years. Next season? That might be you in my shoes.”
I hung up.
Two months later, Jeremy stood on the doorstep. Flowers, chocolates, a bottle of Merlot.
“Em, I get it now. Forgive me. You and Tom are my family. Chloe was a mistake. I miss you both horribly. Can’t live without you…”
I looked at a stranger. What drama unfolded *there* to send him scurrying back?
“Jeremy… I can live without you. Very well, actually.”
He didn’t stop. Messages. Calls. Sobbing voicemails. Whispering through the letterbox:
“Em, forgive me… you know I’m a fool. Weak. Easily led. But only with you do I… feel alive.”
*Alive?* Let’s test that.
I filed for divorce. The full monty. A solicitor sharp as anything. Rent on the flat, his mistress’s upkeep, joint account pilfering – all meticulously documented. Ice-cold and calculating mode: engaged.
The divorce papers landed at his surgery.
Colleagues gossiped.
Management noted; nothing good ever came of this.
The senior consultant hauled him in: “How could you let this happen?”
He came to me – swollen eyes, trembling hands.
“Why, Em? Why do this?”
“Oh, just mirroring your lifestyle, Jeremy. Only now, *you’re* not the surgeon. *I’m* the scalpel.”
Then I rang Chloe. Oh yes
Then, catching the warmth in that stranger’s smile as he picked up my pen, I realised the scalpel had done its work—it cut out the rot and neatly stitched my chance for happiness shut.