Sorry for Not Living Up to Expectations!

Im sorry I didnt live up to your expectations!
It all unfolds like a joke or a melodramatic TV episode: its evening, Tom is at his desk in a flat in Manchester, scrolling on his laptop, while Im tidying the kitchen. The car alarm on the driveway goes off, and Tom darts outside thank goodness its summer. As I dust the coffee table, I nudge the mouse, and the dead screen flickers back to life.

I never thought it was proper to snoop on Toms phone, rummage through his pockets, or peek over his shoulder while he works that would be rude, I tell myself. Yet this time it happens completely by accident.

Glancing at the monitor, I spot a chat on some dating site. A flash of the word darling catches my eye. I turn away, embarrassed, wondering if it could simply be a harmless phrase like my darling, youre wonderful, or even a joke about my favourite sausage. Still, curiosity pulls me back to the screen.

Yeah, darling, Tom writes, unabashedly using his own photo on the site. Sure, well meet tomorrow as planned. I keep replaying our last night out. Youre on fire!
My dear bear, I reply in a thin, reddishbrown voice. My whole body still aches.

The next messages are frantic: Bear, are you there? Im bored! Where are you? Tom had rushed out, and the tension builds.

I set the cleaning cloth down and slump onto the sofa. Tom had warned me that tomorrows work conference is mandatory no opting out and Ive spent the afternoon steaming my trousers, ironing a crisp shirt, and matching a tie to the suit, making sure there are no stray creases. Now I understand exactly what event he meant.

When Tom finally returns, hes livid about a group of teenage hooligans who kicked a ball into his car. He shouts, curses, flails his arms, and I nod along at the right moments, though my mind feels miles away.

Fortunately, Tom isnt in a romantic mood tonight, so we drift off to sleep. Ill think about it tomorrow, I say, echoing a famous heroine, yet I toss and turn all night, unable to drift off.

At dawn, Tom leaves for his job, and I turn to the housework. My mother is due to bring Billy, my twoandahalfyearold nephew, who has been staying with his grandmothers cottage for a week. I scrub floors, polish the sink, scour the tiles, while the nagging refrain what now? loops endlessly in my head.

The truth keeps slipping into place: bits of Toms conversation, his actions, now take on a new, cruel meaning. My familiar world crumbles and I have to pick up the pieces.

One thing is crystal clear I will never forgive Tom. Never, even if he begs, says it was an accident, or swears it wont happen again. The sting may dull with time, but the betrayal will remain.

I also know Billy is only two and a half. A nursery place wont be available until autumn, so I cant return to work yet. I cant lean on my elderly parents, nor fight a bitter battle over child support.

Starting a messy divorce right now, still reeling from shock, feels impossible. Do I have the strength? Will Toms pleas to think, wait, forgive lure me into regret? No. Divorce is a certainty, just not today.

So I linger. I keep ironing Toms shirts, selecting ties, laughing at his jokes in the rare moments he remembers me as a person, not just a housewife. The only feeling I cant shake is disgust. I dodge the chores with flimsy excuses, and Tom sighs with relief. Lately he seems to have blossomed he smiles, hums to himself, even brings me flowers for no reason, while I pretend to buy his stories about trips, meetings, and courses.

In October a nursery slot finally opens. I go back to work and file for divorce straight away. It would be wrong to say Tom is merely stunned he had been convinced I was oblivious to his affairs. When the truth hits him, he erupts, accusing me of being mercenary.

Golddigging harlot! Low and vile! No wonder they call people like you housewives of the night! You sat on my neck, waited for the child to grow, and now you think you can say goodbye, dear? I thought my wife was different, but youre just like every other woman!

Our mutual friends rally behind Tom, shunning me as a calculating shrew. Even my mother looks at me with reproach: How could you? If you wanted a divorce, youd have done it straight away, not linger, not keep the stone in your pocket I never thought my daughter could be so petty and calculating.

Sorry I didnt meet your expectations, I tell everyone, but I never change my decision.