During My Husband’s Birthday Gathering, My Son Pointed at a Guest and Cried, “That’s Her! She’s Wearing That Skirt!”
A fortnight before my birthday, I found myself rummaging through the upstairs wardrobe. Oliver had begged me for the picnic rug for a school trip, and—as mothers do—I relented.
“Please, Mum,” he insisted. “I promised my mates I’d bring the rug and fizzy drinks. And I said you’d bake those sticky toffee cupcakes too.”
So, dutiful as ever, I began searching. Old trunks, coiled wires, fans long since broken from summers past. Then, tucked behind the corner, I spotted it.
A black box. Polished. Neat. Hidden away like a confidant’s secret.
I wasn’t prying, truly. But curiosity won. I drew it out, settled on the rug, and eased the lid open.
My breath stilled.
Inside lay a satin skirt—deep burgundy, smooth as a sigh, with fine hand-sewn lace along the hem. Refined. Exquisite.
And unmistakable.
I’d shown it to William—my husband—weeks before as we ambled through the high street. A boutique display caught my eye, and I gestured to it. “Far too indulgent,” I’d sighed, though part of me wished he’d take note.
“Every woman deserves a bit of finery now and then,” he’d chuckled.
So when I found it, wrapped in tissue, nestled in that box, I knew. This was meant for my birthday. A quiet warmth unfurled within me.
Perhaps we were still alright.
Not wishing to spoil the surprise, I shut the lid, returned the box, and handed Oliver an old tartan throw instead. I even bought a blouse to pair with the skirt, stashing it in my drawer, awaiting the grand unveiling.
My birthday came. Kinfolk gathered. Will pressed a parcel into my hands with a boyish grin.
Books.
A handsome pile of novels, carefully selected—but no skirt. Not a whisper of it.
I waited. Perhaps he meant to give it later, over a quiet supper or a stolen moment between us.
That moment never arrived.
Days later, I crept back to the wardrobe for one last glance. But the box… was gone.
Just like that. Disappeared.
Still, I held my tongue. I refused to be the sort of wife who mistrusted. Who leapt to bleak conclusions.
Hope lingers, even when sense warns otherwise.
Three months slipped by. No trace of the skirt. No word. Only silence.
Then, one afternoon, as I whisked lemon curd for a bakery order, Oliver sidled into the kitchen. His gaze darted, his shoulders rigid.
“Mum?” he murmured. “I’ve got to tell you something. About the skirt.”
I laid the whisk aside.
“I know Dad bought it,” he began. “When we went to the shops for my football boots, he left me outside. Said he needed to fetch something.”
My stomach clenched.
“Then, one day,” Oliver went on, “I skipped lessons. Came home early for my skateboard… but I heard voices upstairs. Thought it was you and Dad.”
He faltered, throat bobbing.
“But you’re never home at that hour. I froze. Hid under your bed.”
My heart broke for him.
“She laughed, Mum. Wasn’t you. I saw her legs. She had the skirt on.”
I stood rigid, the world tilting.
Then I pulled him close.
No child should bear such a weight.
A week later, we hosted William’s birthday. I cooked. I scrubbed. I arranged, adorned, and smiled.
I wore a navy frock and crimson lipstick. I slipped into heels I’d rue by evening. And I played my part—dutiful wife, charming hostess, unshakable foundation.
Inside, I was coming undone.
The gathering hummed with chatter and song until Oliver tugged my sleeve.
“Mum,” he whispered, eyes wide. “That’s her. The skirt. She’s got it on.”
I followed his stare.
Beatrice.
William’s secretary. By the wine table, poised and grinning in that unmistakable burgundy satin skirt.
The skirt he’d concealed.
The skirt I’d thought was mine.
She stood with her husband, Alistair, glass in hand, cheeks flushed.
I lifted a tray of canapés and glided over.
“Beatrice! That skirt suits you beautifully. Wherever did you find it?”
She startled. “Oh—ta. It was a gift.”
“How kind,” I cooed. “Funny—I had one just the same. Found it at home once. Then it vanished.”
Her smile faltered.
Across the room, William watched, stricken.
“Alistair!” I beckoned. “Do join us. We were admiring Beatrice’s skirt. Will, come along!”
The four of us stood, a tight circle. Beatrice’s fingers quivered on her glass. Alistair frowned. William looked gutted.
“I adored that skirt,” I mused. “Fancied it was meant for me. But I see now—it was meant for another.”
William coughed. “I gave it to Bea. As a bonus. For her splendid work.”
“How generous,” I said, tone steady. “Was that for her efforts in the office… or for her visits to our bed at midday?”
Silence.
Alistair stepped back from Beatrice. Her lips parted, eyes brimming with guilt.
“Leave Oliver out of this,” William muttered.
“Too late,” I said. “He’s already in it.”
Guests had noticed. The room hushed. Whispers ebbed. The truth hung thick as fog.
That night, once the last guest left, I told William: “I want a divorce.”
No pleading. No remorse. Just weary surrender.
The papers were signed swiftly. He took a cramped flat in town.
Beatrice, I heard, fled back to her parents.
Oliver asked if I was alright. I said yes—until he believed it.
I began to breathe anew.
Dawn strolls with no aim. Baking for pleasure, not pennies. Tea with old friends I’d neglected too long. Laughter where I least expected.
I even bought that skirt. Not just burgundy—but every shade they stocked.
Because henceforth, if anyone’s to love me as I ought to be loved, it’ll be me.
