Shadows of Truth: The End of a Love
Victor Whitaker stepped into the flat after a long day at the office on the outskirts of Manchester.
“Hello, I’m home!” he called out, stepping into the kitchen where the smell of food already lingered.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, surprised by the neatly arranged dishes on the table.
“No occasion,” replied his wife, Samantha, though her voice carried an odd note. “Just couldn’t be bothered to cook, so I ordered takeaway.”
“Takeaway? Brilliant!” Victor brightened, shrugging off his jacket.
“Sit down, then. Let’s eat,” said Samantha, but then she walked out of the kitchen.
A minute later, she returned with a sheet of paper and silently handed it to him.
“What’s this?” Victor asked, but as his eyes scanned the page, he froze as if struck by lightning.
***
“Hello, it’s the delivery driver,” crackled a voice through the intercom, and the screen flickered to life, revealing a young man in bright company colours. “The payment didn’t go through yesterday.”
“You’ve got the wrong address,” Samantha replied calmly. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry, here’s the receipt, have a look,” the lad held a crumpled bit of paper up to the camera, jabbing a finger at the address. “I delivered it myself yesterday. Address: Moon Street, number 12. A man paid by card, but it was declined. I’ve got a copy here—just check, please?”
The boy looked flustered, apologising after nearly every word. Clearly, he was new—not just to deliveries, but to work in general. Samantha narrowed her eyes skeptically, opened the door, and studied him. His scrawny frame was swallowed by an enormous insulated backpack, making him look like a sparrow carrying an impossible load. She nearly smiled, but the receipt caught her attention.
Scrawled on the paper was: *”Error Code: 55. Incorrect PIN.”*
“I told you, you’ve made a mistake,” she repeated. “No one was home yesterday, and we didn’t order anything.”
“Sorry,” the courier blushed. “A different woman… a lady took the payment.”
“Even more reason,” Samantha laughed. “Definitely not me.”
The courier handed over a second receipt with the address and order details. Samantha skimmed it: Japanese cuisine, cutlery for two, card payment. Nothing unusual—except one thing. Victor hated sushi. At the bottom was the customer’s name: *Victor.*
Her pulse roared in her ears. Only one man lived in this flat—her husband. *A lady?* At 43, she hardly fit that description anymore. Maybe the lad was just being polite? But something didn’t add up.
“I’ll pay,” she said abruptly. “Where’s your terminal?”
The boy blinked in surprise. He’d expected tears or shouting—his own mother had done both when she learned of his father’s infidelity. But Samantha was composed, steel beneath her skin. As she saw him out, she suddenly laughed. The sound twisted into something jagged, tears spilling over. She wiped her face, took a breath, and picked up the phone.
“Victor, hi. How late are you working tonight?” she asked, feigning lightness.
“Hi. Till seven, unless the boss calls another bloody meeting,” he said. “Why?”
“Thought we could have dinner together.”
“Plans changed?”
“Yes, I’ll be home all evening. It’d be nice to spend some time, just us.”
“Sure, but I can’t say for certain when I’ll be back.”
“Doesn’t matter, we’ll sort it later. Can’t be bothered cooking—I’ll order something, alright?”
“Done.”
She hung up and opened the wardrobe. Her gaze settled on the black dress with golden stitching, the one she’d worn to the last Christmas do. *If it’s a celebration, we might as well dress for it*, she thought bitterly.
Back in the hallway, she glanced at the receipt, picked up her phone, and ordered the same sushi as yesterday—*cutlery for two.*
That evening, the same flustered courier delivered the meal. Relieved the payment went through, he hurried off, certain this family hid secrets too strange to pry into.
An hour later, Victor returned. Samantha greeted him with a smile, though her eyes gave her away. She noticed how perfectly he played the dutiful husband—just as he always did after his *”late nights”* or sudden *business trips.*
“Sushi?” Victor frowned at the table.
“Yes. Saw an ad for this place yesterday,” she said offhand. “Fancied it. I know you don’t like it, so I did roast chicken for you.”
“Actually, I’ll give it a go,” he said. “We ordered some at work once—wasn’t bad.”
“Change is good, isn’t it, Victor?” she asked, a faint smirk playing at her lips. “Wash your hands—I’m starving.”
Victor tensed. Her calm, the sushi, the same restaurant—he didn’t believe in coincidences. But how could she know about last night?
He sat, eyeing her warily. But instead of shouting or recriminations, she simply asked:
“What’s her name?” Her voice was steady, almost indifferent, as she speared a roll with her fork.
Victor choked. Denial was pointless now.
“Emily,” he muttered.
“Pretty name,” she replied, just as calm. “How long’s it been going on?”
“Sam—” he began, lost for words.
“Victor, spare me the excuses,” she cut in. “Tell me about her. I want to know if it’s serious or just a fling.”
“Serious?” He faltered. “Is this a joke? Why are you so calm? What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” she laughed, though bitterness laced the sound. “Go on, then. Who is she?”
“She’s thirty,” he exhaled. “Doubt it’ll last, though.”
“Why? Flighty? Impressed by an older man?” Samantha held his gaze, unblinking.
Pain flickered across her face.
“No, she’s… decent,” Victor mumbled.
Praising his mistress to his wife felt surreal.
“Then what’s the problem?” she pressed.
“What are you on about?”
“You like her, I can tell by how you speak. People don’t talk like that about flings. I’ll give you a divorce—no drama. We can sort the details now.”
“Sam, are you alright?” Victor studied her, uneasy.
Her composure unnerved him. He’d expected fury, tears, threats—just like before. But Samantha was unreadable.
“Victor, I don’t love you,” she said suddenly. “Haven’t for three years. And you know what? It’s easy to say out loud. Every time you come back, I let you. We should’ve divorced ages ago. But you won’t leave—some misguided loyalty. Let me go. I’m letting you go too.”
Victor went still. Yes, they’d fought, separated, but divorce had always felt too final. He’d assumed she couldn’t bear to lose him. And truthfully, neither could he imagine life alone.
They’d married at eighteen, known each other since childhood. There *was* no other life. The unknown terrified him.
But that morning, when the courier showed her the receipt, Samantha realised—her love for Victor had long since faded. The truth was as simple as dust on a shelf, waiting to be wiped away.
“Maybe we’re rushing this?” he ventured. “Midlife crisis?”
“No,” she said firmly. “I was *glad* today, finding out about her. Hurt, then… relief. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Sorry. I don’t think… I love you either,” he admitted.
“Let’s toast to that,” she smiled, nodding at the table.
She left and returned with paper and pen.
“While we eat, let’s jot down who takes what.”
*Like dust swept away*, she thought, beginning the list. Victor, watching her, started talking about Emily—not as his mistress, but as someone who made him happy. As if speaking to an old friend, not his wife.
[3000 characters]
