It happened on a Tuesday. Just an ordinary Tuesday. School bags in the hallway, washing half-done, kettle still warm. He came home early, which was strange. Sat at the kitchen table like a stranger. Hands folded, eyes too steady.
“I need to tell you something.”
My heart didn’t race. It didn’t even get louder. I think it just paused.
“I’ve met someone.”
That’s all he said. Like he’d lost a sock or burnt the toast.
I didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Didn’t ask questions. I just stood there, holding a packet of biscuits I’d picked up on the way back from the shop. I even offered him one. Silly.
Later that night, I slept in the spare room. The one with the single bed and the broken blind. Lying there in a ball, phone in hand, not sure who to message. Ended up scrolling through cake videos and dog clips till 2 am.
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We’d been together nearly twenty years. Not a perfect couple. Far from it. But we had our thing. Our rhythm. Our “I’ll cook, you do the dishes” routine. The holidays in Cornwall, the way he always forgot the bags for life, even after all those reminders.
We raised two brilliant kids. Painted the hallway three times because we couldn’t agree on the shade. Got through the loss of his mum, the job changes, the Christmases that didn’t go to plan. And still, somehow, none of that was enough.
She’s twenty-three. Met her at work. An intern. You can imagine. Smooth skin, no stretch marks, probably thinks putting vinegar on chips is edgy. She wears crop tops in winter and says “literally” a lot. I checked her socials. Couldn’t help it. She posted a boomerang of their dinner—sushi, candles, some caption like “spoiled” with a winky face.
I won’t lie. That one stung.
The days that followed were foggy. School runs, laundry, and questions I didn’t know how to answer. “Where’s Dad?” “Is he coming home soon?” I told them he needed some time. Couldn’t bring myself to say he’d chosen someone else.
People noticed. The neighbour popped by with a lemon drizzle and sad eyes. Colleagues asked if I was okay, and I nodded too quickly. At the supermarket, someone from down the road gave me that tilted-head look. Like I was a dog left out in the rain.
I started sleeping with the window open, even when it was freezing. The silence of the room felt too heavy otherwise. Cold air helped. Made it feel real.
Funny what you miss. Not the big things. Not the birthdays or the holidays or the hand-holding. It’s the kettle boiling for two. The coat was tossed on the wrong hook. The “what’s for tea?” at half-six, every single day without fail.
I started keeping a notebook. Just random bits. Things I noticed. Like how the light comes through the curtains just right at 7am. Or how Ella always leaves one sock behind. Or how I suddenly had space in the wardrobe, and it didn’t feel as good as I thought it might.
And slowly, life adjusted.
I painted the bedroom a ridiculous shade of green. Started adding chilli flakes to everything. Stopped pretending to like golf. Even wore bright lipstick to the corner shop once, just to see how it felt. It felt… odd. But good.
Ran into him one afternoon. Just outside the Post Office. He looked thinner. Smiled like nothing had happened.
“You look well,” he said.
I nodded. “So do you.”
Then he said, “She’s moving in.”
I smiled. Not because I was happy. But because I didn’t feel anything. Not anger. Not jealousy. Just… done.
Later that evening, I made a proper dinner. No freezer food, no rushed bites. Just me and the kids and a big bowl of pasta. We laughed about something silly. A TV ad, I think. And I realised, right there, that laughter hadn’t left this house. He had. But joy stayed.
It hasn’t been easy. There are still days when the weight hits me out of nowhere. Like when I pass a couple holding hands in the park or hear a song we used to like on the radio. And sometimes I catch myself wondering if she laughs at his jokes. If she’s seen him in his holey pyjamas yet.
But those thoughts pass.
Because I also remember things. Like how I’d ask him to fix that dripping tap for six months, and he never did. Or how he never learnt to spell “definitely” right. Or how he used to say “I’m tired” more than “I love you” in the end.
Now, I fall asleep with a book in hand and wake up to the sound of birds, not snoring. I eat the last biscuit without guilt. I take up the whole bed.
There’s peace in that.
Last week, I signed up for a pottery class. First time I’ve done something just for me in years. My hands are clumsy. I dropped a bowl. Everyone laughed, including me.
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And that’s the thing, isn’t it? You don’t fall apart overnight. But you don’t rebuild overnight, either. It’s one burnt toast, one deep breath, one slow Sunday at a time.
He left me for a much younger woman. Yes. But I found something better.
I found me.
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