So, get this. My name’s Emily, I’m thirty-two, and I always thought of myself as pretty level-headed. I never grilled my husband with accusations, trusted him completely—maybe a bit too much, looking back. And boy, did that trust come back to slap me in the face. How did I not see what was right under my nose?
My husband, James, mentioned one evening that he’d been sent on a work trip for a couple of days—no specifics, just vague. After that, he said he’d pop round to his mum’s. She lives about forty minutes away in a nearby town. Normally, we’d go together, but this time? He shut it down.
*“Why bother coming? I’ll be quick. Don’t want to drag it out,”* he shrugged.
I felt a twinge. Why the sudden change? Usually, I’d be the first one packing my bag. But I brushed it off. Maybe he *was* just tired, busy. Thought, *fine, I’ll have some me-time, catch up with the girls—been ages.*
Next day, while James was *”on his work trip,”* I had a natter with my mum, then my mate Becky. She dropped some news—our friend Sophie’s birthday was tomorrow, but weirdly, we hadn’t been invited.
*“Let’s surprise her!”* Becky suggested. *“We’ll go round midday, set up balloons, snacks, the lot. She’ll come home—bam! Party time!”*
I loved the idea. Even better, Sophie lived right next door, literally the next building over. Her sister was in on it and gave us the key. We grabbed food, cake, decorations—the full works.
We let ourselves in. Sophie, as expected, was at work. But here’s what threw me—a bloke’s coat was hanging in the hall. Not just any coat. *James’s coat.* I knew every stitch of it—I’d bought it myself. My fingers twitched to check the pockets, but I stopped. *Could be her brother, could be anyone.*
We got to prepping. Laughing, joking, imagining Sophie’s shock. I’d almost forgotten about the coat. Until the key turned in the lock.
First, silence. Then, stumbling into the hallway—*James and Sophie.* Kissing. Giggling. All loved up.
They froze when they saw us.
I was mid-chop, knife in hand. Becky with a spoon in the dip. Sophie went sheet-white, like she’d seen a ghost.
*“Now *that’s* a surprise,”* I said flatly, staring straight at James.
He started stammering, *“It’s not what it looks like—Em, wait—”*
Sophie snapped out of it first, screeching, *“How did you even get in here?! This is private property! You can’t just barge in!”*
I laughed. *Barging in? Try wrecking my life.*
*“Yeah. Funny thing is, *we’re* not the ones out of place here,”* I hissed. *“Work trip, James? Next building over?”*
I left first. Becky stayed to grab the food. She looked gutted—like this was her fault for suggesting the surprise. But I knew better.
This wasn’t on Becky. Wasn’t on me. Wasn’t even the surprise. It was *him.* My husband, who thought a *”work trip”* could be a two-minute walk away. Who thought lies could paper over betrayal. Who treated me like furniture—always there, but never worth the effort.
Didn’t cry. Just felt sick. Sophie—we’d been mates for a decade. Sat in my kitchen, drank my tea, gossiped about telly. And now she was James’s *”other life.”*
A week later, he moved in with her. Didn’t last, though. A month in, she booted him out. Word is, he started pulling the same stunt—*”just popping round”* with *”work”* as the excuse. Work trips—his new get-out clause for everything.
Now? He’s alone. Drops by sometimes *”for a cuppa.”* Says he misses me. I let him in—just to show him I’m doing just fine, thanks. Free. No need to prove my worth to someone who chose lies over loyalty.
As for Sophie? Haven’t spoken since. Let her stay in her little flat, thinking she *won.* Me? I’ll find my happiness elsewhere.