**His Ex**
“Cheers, Tommy! Don’t know what I’d do without you,” flashed across the smartphone screen.
Emma’s husband’s phone buzzed right in her hand. Without thinking, she glanced at the message. The sender’s name read *Marissa*. A heart emoji winked cheekily at the end.
Emma’s eyes widened. *Marissa? Tommy?* She might have brushed it off as some distant relative or colleague—except for one thing: her husband had never mentioned a *Marissa* before. Or had he?
She forced herself to stay calm. Facts first. But a prickle of jealousy needled her heart.
“Who’s Marissa?” Emma kept her voice steady, though it took effort.
Tom, sipping his tea at the kitchen table, blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Marissa,” Emma said flatly, holding up his phone. “Who is she?”
His eyes flickered with tension before he shrugged. “Oh. That’s just Marina.”
Emma went still. “Marina who?”
“Er—an ex,” he said dismissively. “Nothing between us now.”
She set his phone down slowly, arms folded. “An ex who calls you *Tommy* and thanks you with a heart? Seriously?”
Tom shrugged again, as if it were no big deal. “Yeah. She needed a bit of help. Asked to borrow some money, so I lent it to her.”
A wave of anger hit her. “You gave your *ex* money?!”
“Yeah? What’s the issue?”
“The *issue*,” she echoed bitterly, “is you dipping into *our* savings to fund some random woman!”
He finally met her gaze. “Emma, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. We’ve known each other for years—why shouldn’t I help her?”
She let out a hollow laugh. “You’re *married*, Tom. To *me*. Not her.”
He exhaled impatiently, like explaining to a child. “We didn’t end badly. She’s not a stranger.”
“Am *I* the stranger, then?”
Tom stayed silent. Emma shook her head, breathing deeply.
“How long’s this been going on?”
“What?”
“This cosy little arrangement.”
He looked away again. “We’ve always kept in touch. Even before you. I just didn’t mention it—didn’t want to upset you.”
Her stomach turned cold. “So for *two years*, you hid it?”
“Not *hid* it. Just didn’t see the point in bringing it up. I’m not cheating on you. You’ve no reason to worry.”
She exhaled slowly, fighting the urge to shout. “How often do you *help* her?”
“Occasionally. Small things. Fixing her shelves, setting up her laptop.”
“So my *husband* runs errands for another woman like some handyman?”
“Bloody hell, Emma!” he snapped. “I helped her. So what? If it were your friend, I’d do the same!”
She stared at him, icy resolve settling in. “If you don’t see what’s wrong here, then we don’t share the same values.”
She turned and walked out, not wanting to see his face.
That day passed in a blur—anger, hurt, confusion. She tried to rationalise it, but one question gnawed at her: *How did I miss this?*
Tom never looked guilty. Now that she knew, he didn’t hide his contact with Marina—but acted like it was nothing.
Over the next fortnight, the picture became clear. His late nights at work? Every few days, *something* came up—Marina’s washing machine, her laptop, a favour “only Tom could handle.”
“Popping round Marina’s tonight,” Tom said casually over dinner. “Her fridge is acting up.”
Emma set her fork down. “No repairmen in London, then?”
“Oh, come off it. What’s the worst that happens?”
“The worst,” she said coldly, “is me having to live with this circus. If you’re so keen on playing knight in shining armour, maybe you should move in with her. Save on petrol.”
“You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
“So you’re kicking me out?”
“No. I’m letting *you* choose. Our marriage, or her. I’m done.”
She walked away, done with his games. Maybe he thought transparency would soften the blow—but to her, it was betrayal.
A week later—silence. He’d crashed at a mate’s, then strolled back in like nothing happened.
“Calmed down yet?” he asked, flopping onto the couch.
Emma turned slowly. “Is *this* how you fix things? Disappear, then waltz back like it’s all fine?”
Tom sighed dramatically. “Honestly, you’re overreacting.”
Her fists clenched. “I won’t share my marriage with someone else.”
“There *isn’t* anyone else. You’re imagining things.”
“Fine,” she said, staring him down. “Either you cut contact, or I file for divorce.”
He scoffed. “You’d throw us away over *this*?”
“If you won’t set boundaries, then I’ll set mine.” She grabbed her suitcase. “I’ll be at Mum’s. Decide what matters more.”
He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say a word.
Ten days passed. No call, no apology. Her mother tutted. “Men like him don’t grow on trees, love. Maybe you’re being too harsh.”
Emma smiled bitterly. “Or maybe he never let her go.”
When Tom finally rang, his tone was breezy. “Had time to cool off?”
Her grip tightened on the phone. “You think I left just to *calm down*?”
“Didn’t you?”
She closed her eyes. It was crystal clear now.
“You still don’t get it, do you?”
“If by *it*, you mean the fuss over nothing—no.”
Emma smiled sadly. “Fine. Since it’s *nothing*, I’ll make it official. I want a divorce.”
Silence.
“Suit yourself,” he muttered.
She hung up—and for the first time in weeks, felt peace. No more waiting, wondering, hoping. Sadness would pass.
After all, when one door closes, another opens. **But you must be brave enough to walk through it.**
