The Affair

My husband is having an affair. 

It’s obvious in the guilt that fills his eyes, in the strained smile whenever he sees me. He doesn’t know how obvious it is. But I know. 

I know. 

He lives his two lives in secret of one another. I wonder if the other woman know too, or if I know him better than she does. 

And why does that thought bring pride to my chest? My husband is choosing deceit over the love we promised each other. Until death do us part. 

And eventually, he doesn’t try to hide it anymore. 

And I know. I know. 

I find her things in my closet, her shirts next to mine on the hangers I chose. They’re not too dissimilar. Maybe that’s why he chose her. Maybe he had a type. 

I find her tooth brush in our shared holder in our bathroom. It takes pride of place on the shelf, sitting comfortably next to his. Her make-up slowly replaces mine. The same brand but different shades. 

I can see myself in her. 

He isn’t trying to hide it anymore.  I don’t know when he began not to care. I think that hurts the most. 

Now I don’t recognise myself in my own home. 

Then when the wall paper starts to peel in the living room, she is the one to pick out the new one. She chooses pink, and he nods along with everything she says. I never liked pink. He knows that. 

Her picture lights up his Home Screen. I remember when he chose his last, showed me the pictures he was considering. Pictures of the two of us, together. Pictures of us on our wedding day. It was like that for years, and now I am gone. 

She smiles up at him when he makes a phone call. Where did I go?

He doesn’t even hide it anymore. He’s not even ashamed!

Every Friday I still wait for him. Every Friday, he meets with her instead of me. Every Friday I sit alone and wonder where it all went wrong… 

I can’t stand it anymore. Enough is enough!

He thinks that I am gone; he erases me from his life, from our home and acts like I was never there. 

He thinks that I am gone and scurries to her waiting, open arms. He thinks she can replace me? He thinks it will be easy?

I discover the plan by accident. 

But the texts were on the phone. So were the kisses. 

He’s not hiding it anymore. 

I hate that it had come to this. I hate that I see his search history. I hate that I see the ring. 

They’re planning a picnic by the lake. He’ll row her out on a small, beautiful boat he bought for the occasion. He bought it for her. Like a Disney prince straight out of the fairytale. He comes swooping down to save her, to sweep her off her feet, to drown her in my riches. Would she hate that they were mine?

I watch them giggle in the boat. Hands always touching, or knees, or elbows. Smiles that light up the sky with the love he should have saved for me. 

They look so happy. She looks at him as I did; she looks at him like he is the love of her life. And he stares back, her expression mirrored on his treacherous face. 

He looks the part, then again he always did. The Disney prince. The hero. The saviour. 

The Liar. 

My money paid for that boat. 

And the ring. 


On our wedding day, we made our own vows. We promised each other then - through the good and bad - forever. That whatever happened we would be there for each other. 

Maybe I broke that first. Or maybe he just forgot our spoken promises. I promised to love him forever, and I have. He promised to stay. 

We couldn’t afford proper rings. We didn’t have the golden band and the bubbling champagne. We had each other. We had our promises. We had Love. And that was enough. It should have been enough. 

Now he reaches down into the bag. They laugh over sandwiches, smile through sips of luxury champagne. She drops it when he pulls out the ring. 

A real diamond, more expensive than the boat. More expensive than our entire wedding! She’s giggling, high pitched and shrill, like a mocking bird laughing at me from beyond the lake. 

He takes her hand lovingly, kisses it, sliding the ring onto her finger. 

The tear had already fallen on the stone by the time I had realised I was crying. 

I can’t help but think back to my parents. Our wedding was the last time they were together. They were taken from me too soon, but at least then I had my husband to hold me, to kiss my hand and promise that everything would be okay. 

Nothing would ever be okay. 

What would they think now? Now that this is where their money was going. Their hard earned savings funding the Loire style of a betraying son-in-law and a woman who replaced their daughter. They loved him like their own son, welcomed him into out family without a second thought. 

Does he even remember them?

With tears in their eyes, he rows them to the shore. Jumping out first, he fills his arms with her, lifting her out of the boat and spinning her around — a scene fresh from a movie. 

But his movie has a very different ending. 

He places her down and she wraps her arms around him, running her finger tips over the glistening ring. They stood under the shade of the willow tree. 

It should still be me!

I want to scream. I want to tell her the truth. I want to rip out his hair and demand an explanation.

I want him to remember me. I want him to remember what we had.

That was our spot, not theirs. 

I lean against the stone and wonder what to do. 

As they held each other in the dimming summer sun, I stepped out from behind the stone. I glare at him, unable to hide the pain as I stared, grieving our marriage and our future. 

When he saw me, he paled. 

Not even death could keep me from him. 

The nerve of him. Why would he propose to her where he buried me!