It seemed a lifetime ago, when I still walked the cobbled streets of York and watched my old friend Blythe Whitaker unravel at the edge of her small terraced house.
Shes drifting away, she would sigh, her voice trembling as she clutched the frayed edge of a childs blanket. He comes home late, never helps with the baby, and Im left to shoulder everything on my own.
I, Gwendolyn Hart, watched her fidget with the corner of the knit blanket while little Oliver slept soundly in his pram, his soft breathing the only sound breaking the quiet. Dark circles deepened under Blythes eyes.
Perhaps hes swamped at work? I ventured gently.
What do you mean, swamped? she sobbed. He used to talk about his day. Now hes silent as a spy, hides his phone from me. I feel Ive become a burden to him. After the birth my body never returned to the way it wasmy belly still protrudes, my hair thins. Im afraid he no longer loves me.
I laid my hand on her trembling palm; it was cold and damp.
Dont say such nonsense. Youre a wonderful mother and a lovely woman.
She forced a laugh. Yesterday I asked him to take the baby for a walk while I cooked dinner. He said his head ached from the babys cries. So my head doesnt hurt?
I pressed my lips together. I had always thought Edward, her husband, was selfish, but Blythe refused to see it.
Oliver shifted in his pram and let out a soft whimper. Blythe sprang up at once and began rocking him gently.
Shhh, my love, Mums here.
I walked her to the bus stop and promised to visit again soon.
On my way home through the city park I replayed our conversation, hunting for a way to help her. Suddenly I spotted a familiar silhouette on a benchbroad shoulders, the gait I knew all too well. It was Edward, his coat draped over the back of the seat. Beside him stood a darkhaired woman in a striking red dress.
They stood close, laughing, her head tossed back, his eyes fixed on her with a light that had long been absent from Blythes. Instinct made me step back behind a sturdy oak, my heart pounding. Was this merely a colleague? Or something else?
The doubt vanished the moment Edward slipped his arm around the strangers waist and pulled her close. She rose onto tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth.
I shut my eyes, and when I opened them the scene was unchanged: Edward showering a woman who was not his wife with a passion that seemed reserved for no one else. My hands trembled as I fumbled for my phone, the camera button clicking with a startling snap that echoed across the fifteen metres to the couple.
They kept kissing, then settled on the bench, the woman resting her head on his shoulder while he stroked her hair and whispered something into her ear. I took a few more pictures, then switched to video, though the image came out blurred.
I fled the park, but the vision chased me all the way home. Blythes tearfilled eyes, Olivers innocent face, Edwards betrayalall replayed in my mind. I felt sick with the thought of how twofaced a man could be.
Back at my flat I reviewed the footage. The evidence was undeniable: Edward was cheating, and not for the first time, judging by the ease of their embrace.
That night I lay awake, tormented by what to do. Should I tell Blythe? She was already sinking into a deep postpartum gloom; such a revelation might crush her completely. Should I stay silent and let her blame herself for his coldness? The memory of her complaintsEdwards distance, his late arrivals, his lack of helpnow made painful sense. He had simply found an escape.
The next day at work I could not concentrate. Colleagues questions fell on deaf ears. During lunch I called Blythe.
Hello, love, how are you? Hows little Oliver?
Okay, she murmured. I slept badly; his teeth are coming in. Edward was late again, said there was a meeting.
I clenched my fists.
That evening the pressure became too much, and I drove to my mothers house. Margaret Whitaker, my mother, saw the worry etched on my face.
Whats the matter, dear? You look dreadful.
Mother, I need advice.
We sat at the kitchen table. I showed her the photos and video.
Is that Edward? she asked, astonished.
Yes. I saw them in the park yesterday.
She watched the footage, then sighed.
Alright. What will you do?
I dont know. Tell Blythe? Shes barely holding on after the birth. Remain silent? Then how can I look her in the eye?
She brewed tea and, after a pause, said, If my own husband had been unfaithful, Id want to know. The truth may be painful, but its better than living a lie.
But Blythe is so vulnerable
Thats exactly why she deserves the truth, she replied, placing a hand on my shoulder. Every woman has the right to know whats happening in her family, especially when a childs future is at stake. Who knows what connections Edward has.
A chill ran down my spine; I had never considered that angle.
Besides, Blythe is wasting her energy trying to win him back, while he uses her as a nanny. It isnt right.
What if she doesnt believe me?
Maybe. But its still better than keeping quiet and later being haunted by guilt. My mothers voice was steady. Youll do the right thing. Her reaction is hers to bear.
The following day I drove to Blythes house. She greeted me with a bright smile that barely masked her exhaustion; dark shadows lingered under her eyes.
Good youre here! Im losing my mind with loneliness. Oliver finally fell asleep. Come in, Ill get the kettle on.
While she fussed in the kitchen, I surveyed the cluttered living roomchildrens toys strewn everywhere, unwashed cups on the table. She was barely keeping afloat.
Did Edward come home late again? I asked.
Yes. He said hed been with a client. I was already in bed. I dont even know if he ate dinner.
I chose my words carefully, knowing they would shatter her world.
Blythe, I have something important to tell you. Its hard to say, but you deserve to know.
She tensed.
Whats happened?
I pulled out my phone and opened the gallery.
I was walking through the park and saw Edward there. He wasnt alone.
She stared at the first photo, frowning.
Thats Edward. Whos the woman?
I dont know, but look at the next clip.
The video showed Edward kissing the stranger. Blythes face went pale.
This isnt what I think it is, is it?
Im afraid it is. Im so sorry, Blythe
She watched the footage repeatedly, each viewing draining the colour from her cheeks.
This its an affair. Hes cheating on me. He
Yes. And it doesnt look like the first time.
Blythe leapt up, flinging the phone onto the sofa.
No! Youre the one! Youve been spying on us on purpose! You wanted to ruin my family! she shrieked.
What? Blythe, I saw them by accident
Accident? Youve always been jealous of my husband, my child! You wanted to destroy everything! she wailed, tears streaming down her face, flailing around the room.
From the nursery, little Oliver began to wail, startled by the shouting.
Now youve woken my son! Get out! Never come back! Blythe screamed.
I
Silence! I cant stand to see you! she spat, branding me a traitor.
Stunned, I gathered my things and fled, the infants cries echoing behind me.
Weeks later my friend Sophie told me what had followed.
Can you believe it? Blythe confronted Edward, showed him the video, screamed for answers.
What did he say?
At first he claimed it was a fake, then he lost his temper, shouted that after the birth he no longer liked her and that he had the right to seek happiness elsewhere.
Its awful
He even told her to move out of their flat, said he wouldnt tolerate her tantrums. Blythe and Oliver packed and went to stay with my mother, Margaret. Two weeks of sobbing, trying to understand how her life had turned upside down.
Later, Margaret urged Blythe to reconcile for the sake of the grandchild. She convinced her that men make foolish mistakes but can change, and that a child should grow up in a full family. She told Blythe she was young and beautiful enough to win him back.
Eventually Edward called, offering forgiveness if Blythe stopped her outbursts. He said, Theres no need to air our dirty laundry in public.
Blythe wavered. The betrayal cut deep, yet the terror of being alone with a baby, with no job or money, frightened her more. She told herself Oliver needed his father.
Maternal instinct and fear won. She gathered her belongings and returned to Edward. He met her calmly, even holding Oliver while she sorted her bags. He hoped she realized her mistakes and asked her to stay away from me.
Blythe obliged, blaming me for the whole mess. She cut off all contact, blocked me on every platform, and spun a tale to mutual friends that painted me as the villain who tore their marriage apart.
I have often wondered since whether I should have remained silent, letting Blythe live in ignorance, preserving our friendship at the cost of her selfblame. Or whether truth, however painful, was the only path. I never found an answer. I set out only to help, and in doing so shattered a longstanding bond and hurt the one person I cared for most.
Now I carry that weight, and I vow never to meddle in anyones private affairs again. Never.
