My husband started going to church every single day. I thought perhaps hed found faith at last. Turns out, prayer wasnt what drew him there.
Every evening at half past five, hed leave the house, telling me he was off to evening mass. Well, thats something, I thought at the time. People change when they reach their fifties. I never suspected that these pious words were disguising something else entirely.
It all began quite innocently. After Easter, he started talking more about faith, mentioning now and then that life was weighing on him, that he needed to cleanse himself. I figured this was just a mid-life crisis. My husband had never been particularly religious, but if he needed to find peace through prayerso be it. Id be cooking tea while hed slip out and come back an hour and a half later, calmer somehow, as if hed truly left something behind.
But gradually, I started to notice little changes. Ironed shirts, his hair carefully combed, aftershave dabbed on. When I asked, he said it was out of respect for the house of God. That the Lord deserves a bit of properness. It sounded odd, but I didnt comment. After all, he wasnt out drinking, there were no rows, he wasnt glued to his computer all dayonly this daily visit to church.
Everything changed one Sunday, after wed had lunch with his sister in Oxford. By mistake, I picked up his coat instead of mine. I reached into the pocket for my keys and found a receiptfrom a café just down the road from the church. Two coffees, two slices of cake. Thursday, 6:05pm. But on Thursday, he was meant to be at prayers.
I didnt say anything. Not yet. The very next day, I decided to follow him. I slipped into the last row of pews. The service beganmy husband was there, kneeling, praying. After communion, he was the first to leave. I followed discreetlyand thats when I saw her. She was waiting outside, all smiles, dressed like it was a date. They kissednot at all like friends.
I made my way home on shaky legs, my heart thudding wildly. I felt ashamed. Not angry, not heartbrokenjust deeply ashamed. How had I not seen it? How could I have been so blind?
The next day I asked him outright,
Whats her name?
He froze. Didnt pretend. Didnt deny. He simply sighed and said,
Charlotte. I met her at church. She helps with the services.
And youve been, what, helping too?
He didnt reply. But his silence said more than words ever could.
I didnt make a scene. I didnt throw him out then and there. I just told him, plain as day,
Since you love church so much, perhaps youll want to pray for a new place to live. Because youre leaving this house.
He moved out a week later. Off to his friend from the parish. Our children were stunned, but theyre grown nowthey understood. One of my daughters told me afterwards,
Mum, better now than in ten years time, when youre seventy and left with nothing but tears.
At first, it was difficult. I felt betrayed, finished. I was so afraid Id end up alone forever, that no one would ever cherish me again. But, in time, I realised this solitude was better than living inside a lie.
Its been six months. Sometimes I see them togethershe has his arm, and he looks lost, like a man who doesnt recognise his own life. Now and then I wonder if hell ever come back. But then I recall the unfamiliar scent of other womens perfume clinging to him, the look in his eyes as he left church with her.
And in those moments, Im certain: I dont want a life with someone who needs stained glass and stone walls to hide himself. I would rather face the world in honesty. Even if, from time to time, the truth does hurt.
