Sorry I didnt live up to your expectations!
It unfolded like a sitcom punchline. One balmy summer evening Tom was glued to his laptop in the garden, while Emily was busy tidying the kitchen. The car alarm went off, Tom sprinted out into the yard (thank heavens for the heat), and Emily, dusting the diningroom table, nudged the mouse. The screen, which had gone dark, flickered back to life.
Emily never thought it proper to snoop through Toms phone or peek over his shoulder while he worked she considered it downright uncouth. Yet this time the glimpse was purely accidental.
Glancing at the monitor, Emily spied a chat on some dating site. She turned away, mortified, but managed to catch the word darling. She blushed, thinking perhaps it was a harmless darling, the wife said or even a cheeky my darling sausage! Still, curiosity got the better of her and she read on.
Hey darling, typed Tom, unabashedly using his own photo, yes, lets meet tomorrow as we planned. I replay our last date every hour. Youre absolutely fire!
And youre a bear, my cuddly Teddy, replied a svelte gingerhaired woman. My whole body aches still.
Later, when Tom bolted out in a hurry, a nervous text pinged: Bear, are you there? Im bored! Where are you?
Emily, clutching a dishcloth, flopped onto the sofa. It all made sense now. Tom had warned her that tomorrows work function was mandatory no wiggle room and she had spent the whole day pressing trousers, ironing a perfect crease, matching a tie to his suit, and smoothing out every stubborn crease on his shirt sleeves. She finally understood what event she was prepping her husband for.
Tom returned, fuming about a group of teenage hooligans who had whacked his windscreen with a football. He shouted, swore, flailed his arms, while Emily listened and nodded at the right moments, feeling as detached as if she were watching from a distance, both in mind and heart.
Fortunately, Tom wasnt in a romantic mood that night, so they went to bed. Ill think about it tomorrow, Emily muttered, channeling some stoic heroine, yet she tossed and turned all night, unable to drift off.
At the crack of dawn Tom left for the office, and Emily set about cleaning. Her mother was due to drop off baby Charlie, who had been staying with Grandma in the countryside for a week. Emily scrubbed floors, polished the kitchen tap, and tackled the tiles, while the relentless refrain what now? looped in her head.
She hadnt yet processed the betrayal; instead, her memory kept handing her new snippets of Toms words and deeds, each one taking on a fresh, painful meaning. Her familiar world was collapsing, and she had to start clearing the wreckage.
One thing was crystal clear: she could never forgive Tom. Not now, not ever, even if he begged, claimed it was an accident, or swore it would never happen again. The sharp sting would fade, but the fact of the betrayal would linger forever.
On top of that, Charlie was only two and a half. A nursery place wouldnt open until autumn, meaning Emily couldnt return to work any time soon. She couldnt lean on her ageing parents, nor fight a bitter battle over child support.
Should she launch a messy divorce in the heat of the moment, still reeling from shock? Would she have the stamina? Would Toms pleas to think it over, dont rush, understand and forgive sway her later? No. Divorce was a given, just not today.
Emily held her ground. She kept caring for the house and the baby, ironing Toms shirts, matching his ties, even chuckling at his jokes in the rare moments when he remembered she was a person, not just a livein mop.
The only feeling she couldnt shake was sheer disgust. She dodged the chores she deemed his with flimsy excuses, and Tom sighed in relief. Lately, hed seemed to blossom smiling, humming to himself, bringing her flowers for no reason, while she pretended to buy his excuses about trips, meetings, and courses.
When the nursery slot finally arrived in October, Emily walked into work and immediately filed for divorce. To say Tom was taken aback would be an understatement; hed been convinced she knew nothing of his escapades. Once the truth hit, he threw a tantrum, accusing her of being moneyhungry.
Bettorwifey! Lowlife, youre a proper houseprostitute! he shouted. You sat on my neck, waited for the child to grow, and nowgood riddance! I thought my wife was different, but youre just like every other woman!
Friends rallied around Tom, shunning Emily, labeling her a calculating harpy. Even her mother gave her a reproachful look: How could you? If you wanted a divorce, youd have done it straight away. Instead you lingered, plotted, kept a stone in your pocket I never thought my daughter could be so petty.
Sorry I didnt meet your expectations, Emily replied to everyone, but her decision remained unchanged.
