A Woman Called and Said: “I Have a Child with Your Husband

Hey love, you wont believe the call I got today. The phone rang, an unknown number, and I answered straight away while my hands were still wet from washing the dishes.

Good afternoon, is this Martha? asked a young, calm voice with a faint accent from over the western border.

Yes, speaking, I replied.

Dont hang up, its important. I have a child with your husband, she said.

At first I thought Id misheard. Then I wondered if it was a joke. By the third second my whole body went cold as ice. I braced myself against the counter so I wouldnt fall.

What did you say? I whispered.

Its Mark the lorry driver. He runs routes to France. Weve been seeing each other for over a year. I thought he was single.

She spoke slowly, like someone whod rehearsed this for ages. Every word landed like a hammer blow. My husband the same one whod texted me last night, Ill be later, the unloads taking forever apparently had a second family.

The babys seven months old, the other woman continued. Im not after money. I just wanted you to know.

The phone slipped from my hand. The crash sounded like shattering glass in the quiet kitchen. I stared at the fridge, at the photo of us taped there, and felt my whole life crumble.

I dont remember how long I sat on the floor, propped against the cupboard. Time seemed to stop. All I could hear in my head was that sentence: I have a child with your husband. I kept replaying it, hoping the meaning would fade, but each repetition hurt a little more.

That evening Mark called, his voice as steady as ever.

Everythings sorted, Im back tomorrow. Want me to bring anything? he asked, like he was chatting with a mate.

I froze. For a heartbeat I wanted to say, Yes, bring the truth. Instead I whispered, Come over. We need to talk.

He turned up the next day. The lorry parked outside the block, and I watched from my window as he climbed out tired, unaware that this house was no longer his home. He walked in and hugged me automatically. I pushed him away.

A woman from France called me, I said. She said shes got a child with you.

I saw the colour drain from his face. He didnt try to deny it. He sat down, stared at the floor for a few seconds, then started to speak.

I never wanted you to find out like this. It was a mistake. Everything got out of hand. His voice cracked. It started as a simple friendship coffee, a chat, a chance meeting in the depot parking lot. Sometimes a man just needs someone to listen.

I then impregnated her, I cut in sharply. Thats enough.

He fell silent. He had nothing left to defend with.

She didnt know I was married, he added after a pause. When she got pregnant I told her Id sort things out take a loan, help out. But I couldnt. I didnt know how to explain it to you.

Anger melted into a colder feeling. I looked at the man Id spent over twenty years with as if he were behind a pane of glass.

Why? I finally asked. We had everything.

Thats exactly why, he murmured. We had too much routine, not enough of us.

Thats when it hit me infidelity isnt always born of passion. Sometimes it grows from silence, from years of unspoken words. It still hurts just as much.

He left the kitchen, the scent of cold air and diesel trailing behind. The door shut, and I sank into a chair. The house was dead quiet. His mug sat on the table, still warm. For a moment I wanted to smash it, to destroy every reminder of him, but I only nudged it aside.

He never called the next day, not the day after. Then I got a text: I need to think. Please dont shut the door on me. I didnt reply.

Later that evening I opened the computer and found her profile. A younger woman, ordinary, holding a little boy with dark eyes that were so like Marks my heart clenched.

I couldnt look away. It dawned on me that her hurt was different from mine, but still real. Shed been living a lie too, part of the same story Mark wrote without our consent.

I shut the laptop, didnt cry. I had no tears left, just an overwhelming fatigue, as if all those years had collapsed on me at once.

Two weeks passed. The house was too quiet, the bed too wide. At first I waited, expecting him to call, to show up at the door with that disarming look that used to melt any anger. He never came. Instead a plain envelope arrived, his hurried, uneven handwriting inside.

I’m not asking for forgiveness, the letter began. I just want you to know I never planned this. I never meant to lead a double life. It happened. Im ashamed I didnt have the courage to tell you the truth. The child is mine. Ill support them, but I wont intrude on their lives. I want to come back if youll let me.

I read that note over and over. Every line sounded different sometimes remorse, sometimes an excuse. I cant decide whether the words the child is mine or I want to come back hurt more. How do you return to a place you set on fire yourself?

A few days later he showed up, thinner, with silver at his temples. He stared at me with the same gaze that once made the world feel possible. He held a duffel bag as if ready for anything.

I know I dont deserve this, he said. But I cant live without you. I didnt answer. I let him in. He sat at our kitchen table, the one we always had coffee at. We sat in silence for a long while. Finally I asked, And her?

She knows Im back home, he replied softly. She didnt want to stop me.

Nothing came of that conversation. No decision, no promise. Just a hollow space hanging between us, unnamed.

Since then we sleep in separate rooms. He still tries, cooks, cleans, fixes little things he never noticed before. Im learning to live with the fact that some things cant be patched together, no matter how hard we try.

Sometimes, when I switch off the lights at night, I think of that boy with Marks eyes and wonder if hell ever want to meet his father. And I wonder if I could ever forgive him for that, before he does.

Im not sure I can love that man any more. I do know I cant keep living a lie. It hurts, but maybe its the start of something real.