“Thank you, Tom! I don’t know what I’d do without you,” flashed across the smartphone screen.
The phone vibrated in her hands. Emily glanced down reflexively. The message was from someone named Lizzie. A heart emoji winked at the end.
Emily’s eyes widened. *Lizzie? Tom?* She might have brushed it off as a distant relative or coworker—except for one glaring problem: her husband didn’t know any Lizzie. Or did he?
She snapped her head up. *Get the facts first.* But jealousy pricked her chest.
“Who’s Lizzie?” Emily fought to keep her voice steady.
Thomas, mid-sip of his tea, blinked. “What?”
“Lizzie,” she repeated, shoving the phone toward him. “Who is she?”
He tensed for a split second before shrugging it off. “Oh. That’s Elizabeth.”
Emily went still.
“Elizabeth *who*?”
“Just… an ex. There’s nothing between us now.”
She set his phone down slowly, folding her arms.
“An ex calls you ‘Tom’ and sends heart emojis? You’re joking.”
Another shrug, as if it wasn’t worth discussing.
“Yeah. She needed a favour—borrowed some cash.”
Rage washed over her.
“You gave money to your ex?!”
“Yeah? What’s the big deal?”
“The *big deal*?” she mocked. “Are you serious? You think it’s fine to dip into our savings for some random Elizabeth?”
He finally met her gaze.
“Emily, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ve known each other forever. Why shouldn’t I help her?”
She laughed—sharp, humourless.
“You’re married, Tom. *To me.* Not her.”
He sighed like she was a child missing the obvious.
“We didn’t end badly. She’s not a stranger.”
“Am *I* the stranger?”
Silence. Emily exhaled, shaking her head.
“How long has this been going on?”
“What?”
“Your cosy little chats.”
He looked away again.
“Always stayed in touch. Even before you. Just didn’t bring it up—didn’t want to stress you.”
Ice spread through her.
“Two years. You hid this for *two years*?”
“Wasn’t hiding! Just didn’t see the point. I’m not cheating. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
She clenched her jaw.
“How often do you ‘help’ her?”
“Now and then. Small stuff—fixing her Wi-Fi, putting up shelves.”
“So my husband plays handyman for another woman?”
“God, you’re overreacting!” he snapped. “I lent her money, so what? Crime of the century? I’d do the same for you!”
Her voice turned steel-cold.
“If you don’t see the problem, we have very different ideas of marriage.”
She turned on her heel and left. She couldn’t stand to look at him.
—
The next weeks painted a damning picture. Now that Emily knew what to look for, the pattern was obvious: his frequent “late nights at work” aligned neatly with Lizzie’s *urgent* crises.
“Popping round to Lizzie’s tonight,” Thomas announced over dinner. “Her washing machine’s leaking.”
Emily set down her fork.
“No other repairmen in London?”
“Oh, come off it. What’s the harm?”
“None for *you*.”
“Here we go again!”
“Damn right,” she said icily. “Because your ex just *happens* to need saving every other day. At least you don’t share kids.”
He rolled his eyes but kept eating.
“If it were my mum or a neighbour, would you throw a fit?”
“Neighbours don’t call you nightly.”
“Emily,” he groaned, pushing his plate away. “Honestly, you’re acting like I’ve had an affair.”
“I don’t know if you have. But this? It’s sketchy as hell.”
A bitter smirk.
“You don’t trust me.”
“Give me a reason to.”
Silence.
—
Three days later, Lizzie resurfaced.
“Lizzie rang,” Thomas said casually. “Needs help moving a fridge.”
Emily turned slowly.
“You’re seriously dropping everything to play delivery man?”
“What’s the issue?”
“You *really* don’t see one?”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“No, *you’re* the circus act. First sign of distress, you come running. If you’re so eager to rescue Lizzie, why not move in? Save on petrol.”
“You’re chucking me out?”
“No. I’m giving you a choice: us, or her.”
She walked out before he could reply.
—
He left—crashing at a mate’s, not Lizzie’s (*supposedly*). No calls. No texts. When he sauntered back two days later, his tone was breezy: “Calmed down yet?”
Emily stared. “Is this your idea of fixing things? Vanishing, then waltzing back like nothing’s wrong?”
He sighed, long-suffering. “You’re being dramatic.”
Her hands balled into fists. “I won’t share my husband.”
“There’s no ‘sharing’! You’re paranoid.”
“Fine,” she said, dead-eyed. “Cut ties with Lizzie, or I file for divorce.”
A stunned pause.
“You’d end our marriage over *this*?”
“I’d end it over *you* refusing to set boundaries.”
He scoffed. “So you’re leaving?”
“Already packed.” She wheeled her suitcase past him. He didn’t stop her.
—
A week at her parents’. No word.
Mum tutted. “You’re too harsh. He’s just kind-hearted.”
Emily’s laugh was brittle. “Or still hung up on his ex.”
“Good men don’t grow on trees, love. Is this the hill you’ll die on?”
She said nothing. The issue wasn’t just Lizzie—it was his refusal to *try*.
Day ten, his call came: “Over your tantrum yet?”
Her grip tightened on the phone.
“You think I’m *pouting*?”
“Aren’t you?”
She closed her eyes. *That’s that, then.*
“Tom, do you even *get* why I left?”
“Over nonsense.”
A bitter smile.
“Right. If it’s ‘nonsense,’ we’re done. I’ll file the papers.”
Silence. Then—
“Fine. Your loss.”
“Actually,” she hung up, “it’s yours.”
For the first time in weeks, the weight lifted. No more waiting. No more maybes.
Sadness would pass.
After all—when one door closed, another opened.
