Dear Diary,
My wife, Eleanor, possessed a rarity of beauty that would have made any man pause. If she were a man, Id have chosen her without hesitation. You know the sortwomen who understand their worth, walk with poise, meet you straight in the eye, and listen to the end of a story. Theyre unhurried, their gestures calm; they never feel the need to flash their shoulders or puff out their chest for attention. Instead, they keep a regal composure that never lets them be lost in temperament.
Eleanor might have been drawn to her simply because she was her opposite. What was Eleanor like? Constantly on the run, raising her voice at the children and at me, dropping things from her hands, never being able to gather her thoughts. At work she was always a step behind, with supervisors perpetually sighing at her performance. She lived in jeans and Tshirts or sweaterswho has time to fuss over a dress or a blouse? Shed stopped remembering when she last ironed a shirt or a pair of leggings; a modern tumbledryer was the only thing that saved her from the chore.
The other woman was immaculate. Her silhouette, her gait, long legs, glossy hair, clear eyes, a face so lovely youd be tempted to touch it. Since the moment I first saw her, peace has been a stranger. It all began after a work trip to a suburb of Manchester. Exhausted and famished, I ducked into a café by chance. It was packed; only a corner table was free. I sat, glanced over the menu, and the world seemed to tilt. Nothing was foreign then: I recognised the man at the next table, and I saw her too.
He held his hands flat in his palms, lingering on each finger as if they were scented with basil. It felt like a painting, the way his eyes swept over her. Yet, there was an unmistakable difference about this woman.
A strange feeling washed over me, like the burn you get when you see fresh red marks on skin, knowing pain is imminent, yet living in the suspense of the coming hurt. You try desperately to soothe the wound, hoping to lessen whats to follow.
The wound should have hurt, but inside there was only emptiness. Nothing more.
James, my husband, arrived home on time, as he always does. He is usually calm and balanced, while Eleanor is the one who flares up at the slightest provocationquick, impulsive. Hes a moderateblooded, goodhumoured man, the very antithesis of her.
The humor that would have suited her was nowhere to be found in this moment.
All evening she wanted to confront him directly, with a neutral tone: So, whats the story with the other woman? I saw you yesterday at Green Café; she was striking. I understand, I wouldnt have held back either. She imagined him drenched in sweat, his forehead blotting, cheeks reddening as he struggled to stay composed.
Shed have kept going: Right, and now? Should the kids meet her? Should the new mother move in? Does she come with her own flat, or do you think of moving her into our house?
She said nothing. As usual, James embraced her and fell asleep beside her quickly.
Perhaps they never even got to the part of intimacy, she thought, as she slipped to the other side of the bed. He laughed in his mind, picturing herself as a woman who, even when she sees betrayal with her own eyes, insists it was just a fleeting impression.
Maybe it was only the beginningthe stage of lingering glances, hearts beating in sync. He still knew how to conceal himself, not betraying a glance or a movement.
He tossed and turned, slept in fragments, dreaming of bright flowers and strangers in red dresses.
Morning found him with a heavy head, moving slower than usual, getting the children ready for school with a calm efficiency.
The whole day he wondered what to do. What do women usually do when they catch their husbands with someone else? Search Google? He typed, but Google offered no clear answer. He had no plan. Should he try to keep living?
He didnt need to try. Life went on as before: the same routine, the same husband arriving home punctually, no foreign perfume on his shirt, the noisy, cheerful children, Sunday cinema outings. Everything unchanged, the same twohour affairs a week, sometimes three if he paid attention to the details.
Maybe hed erred in that café?
He hadnt. He called at noon; she didnt answer. He hopped in a cab and returned to the same café, giving the driver a brief excuse about picking up an important parcel for work. Jamess car was parked across the street. He saw both of them alighting and getting into the vehicle together.
He turned pale, asked the driver for a bottle of water, pretended to make a call, and shouted theatrically into the silent phone, Shame on you both! Im done, Im going to work!
Even then he didnt mind the drivers opinion.
When you discover a lover, the world tilts. Divorce? Perhaps. But how do you live differently? To endure? For what, for whom?
He recalled a friends couple, the same scenario: the husband had an affair, hid it, lied, and the wife eventually uncovered it. A scandal erupted, he clung to denial until the messages on his phone proved otherwise. He claimed sabotage, jealous rivals.
The wife then declared, I would never lie. It would be absurd to deny it. If you do something, you must own it. Choose: cut off the affair and keep the family, or leave, but look after your own.
That struck him as admirable. What a steadfast man to have beside her! Yes, its easy to dispense advice from the sidelines, but when life thrusts you into the middle, when others expect a decision and balance, courage and equilibrium disappear in an instant.
He entered the café again, sitting at their table. The other woman lifted her eyes, surprised. James stiffened, then twitched his hands under the table. Silence. It was curious to watch. She understood instantly who she was dealing with, perhaps already knew.
James wanted to speak, but she raised a hand and said, Its not as if I didnt notice, is it? She lowered her voice, Theres nothing abnormal here. It happens. But please think about the children, the flat we share, our elderly parents. Youre mature adults; youll manage.
She rose. Her freshly pressed dress suited her well. A pity she hadnt worn one lately.
Sometimes bravery means saying the truth and moving forward with dignity, no matter how hard it may be. A womans dignity isnt measured by shoes or ironed dresses, but by the quiet strength with which she gathers herself at the end and continues her life.
**Lesson:** When betrayal surfaces, the only true power lies in confronting it honestly, preserving your selfrespect, and choosing the path that aligns with your values rather than succumbing to shame or denial.
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