Even Thirty Years of Marriage Isn’t a Reason to Put Up With Cheating Elena turned the small box in …

Even thirty years of marriage isnt a reason to tolerate betrayal

I turned the small jewellery box over in my hands, feeling the soft but rather faded velvet. The gold letters had nearly disappeared. Inside, three tiny stones sparkled and I had to admit, they were quite beautiful.

Five hundred pounds, said Oliver, flicking through articles on his tablet. From Goldsmiths I had a discount card.

Thank you, darling.

Something clenched inside me, and it wasnt about the money what complaints could I have at our age anyway? No, it was how he said it. So offhand. As if reporting on the price of bread.

Thirty years together. Our pearl anniversary not a common thing these days. Id gotten up early, brought out the fancy lace-edged tablecloth my mother-in-law gifted us on our wedding day. Started to bake a Victoria sponge Oliver used to say it tasted like a slice of heaven.

Now he sat, eyes fixated on his screen, grunting answers to my questions.

Olly, do you remember you promised to take me to Italy for our thirtieth?

Hmm, not looking up.

I thought, maybe at least we could go to Devon? We havent had a holiday together in ages.

Lyn, Ive got an urgent project. Theres no time right now.

A project. Theres always a project. Especially in the last year and a half, since Oliver caught a second wind and became obsessed with youth. Signed up at the gym, bought expensive trainers, reinvented his wardrobe. Even his haircut went sharp and trendy fringe swept to the side, sides shaved.

Midlife crisis, my friend Susan had said. All men go through it. Itll pass.

But it didnt. If anything, it got worse.

I tried on the ring it fit perfectly. At least, after all these years, he remembered my size. The stones glittered with a cool shine.

Its lovely, I said again, examining the gift.

Yes, the settings very trendy. Young peoples style.

That evening, at our festive table, we hardly spoke. The cake was perfect, light and delicate. Oliver ate a slice, praised it by rote. I watched him and wondered: when did my husband become a stranger to me?

So who is she, then? I blurted suddenly.

Who? Oliver looked up from his plate.

The woman who helped you pick this ring.

Whats that got to do with anything?

Oliver, I said evenly, Im not an idiot. A woman picked this. No man says young peoples style.

A silence fell. Prolonged and heavy.

Lyn, dont start.

Is her name Alice?

His face drained of colour. He didnt even ask how I knew. Id hit the mark.

I accidentally saw your messages. Last month, when you asked me to find the insurance phone number. Sweetheart, cant wait to see you ring any bells?

He said nothing.

Twenty-eight, works in your office. Posted a restaurant photo on social media yesterday the table by the window, the one you sat at. I recognised the tablecloth.

How did you know about the restaurant?

Susan saw you. By chance. Small world, Oliver youre not invisible.

He exhaled heavily.

Fine. Yes, theres Alice. But its not what you think.

Then what is it?

She understands me. With her, I feel alive. We talk about books, films

And with me, theres nothing to talk about?

Lyn, just look at yourself! Its always the kids, your health, prices at Tesco. With Alice, I feel vibrant.

Vibrant, I echoed. Of course.

I never meant to hurt you.

Oliver lowered his head.

Does she know youre married?

She does.

And thats fine? Shes comfortable with it?

Shes a modern woman, Lyn No illusions.

Modern, I scoffed. And thirty years with you was that just my fantasy?

I got up and started clearing plates, hands trembling though I tried not to let it show.

Lyn, cant we talk about this properly?

Theres nothing left to say. Youve made your choice.

I havent chosen anyone!

You have every day. When you come home late, make up business trips, buy her gifts with our money.

Theyre our money!

Mine too. I work, remember?

I washed the dishes, stacked them in the rack. Removed the fine tablecloth and put it away. Everything as usual, except my hands wouldnt stop shaking.

What do you want? Oliver asked, standing in the kitchen doorway.

I want to be alone. Today. To think.

And tomorrow?

I dont know.

For two days, I kept my silence. Oliver tried to talk, but got only polite, empty answers. On the third day he cracked.

How long is this going to drag on?

Whats not working for you? I asked, ironing his shirt. Im doing everything as usual cooking, cleaning, laundry.

But youre not speaking to me!

Why bother? Youve got Alice for that.

Lyn!

What? You said yourself Im dull. Weve got nothing to say. Why force it?”

That evening, he left said he was going to see mates. I knew where hed really gone.

I sat at the computer and opened Alices page. Pretty girl. Young. Photos from posh destinations, expensive clothes, champagne glass in hand.

I found one from yesterday: Life is wonderful when someone values you. Tags: love, happiness, matureman.

Mature man. I nearly laughed. Like a product description.

Her friends commented: Alice, whens the wedding?, Youre lucky!, But what about his wife?

Alice replied: Their marriage is only in name. They live like neighbours.

Thirty years as neighbours.

In the morning, I made an appointment with a solicitor. The young man listened, glasses perched on his nose.

I see. Joint assets divided in half house, cottage, car. If we prove adultery, you might claim a larger share.

I dont want more, I said. Just fair.

At home, I made a list:

House sell and split the money.

Cottage his. I wont go there anymore.

Car mine. He can buy a new one.

Bank accounts divide equally.

Oliver came home late, found the list on the kitchen table.

Whats this?

Divorce.

Are you mad?

No. Ive finally come to my senses.

Lyn, I explained! Its just infatuation. It will pass!

And if it doesnt? Am I supposed to wait another thirty years for you to get over yourself?

Oliver sat on the sofa, face in his hands.

I never wanted to hurt you.

But you did.

What should I do now?

Choose, I said. Family or Alice. No third option.

For three months we lived truly as neighbours. Oliver moved to the spare room. Communication was strictly functional. I signed up for English classes, joined the swimming pool, read novels Id never had time for.

Alice called occasionally, crying on the phone. Oliver stepped onto the balcony for whispered words.

One evening, he came home early and sat across from me.

Ive ended it. With Alice.

Why should I care?

Lyn, I realise it now. I was an idiot. Ive made a dreadful mistake.

I agree.

Can we try again? Im different now.

I put my book aside.

Oliver, you left her not because you valued me, but because she bored you. The next Alice will come along in a year or two.

She wont!

She will. Youre not losing me youre lamenting lost youth. I cant give it back.

Lyn

The divorce documents are ready. Sign them.

He signed. No tantrums, no fights over property. I took only what Id listed.

Six months later, I met Arthur a fellow widow, an English teacher. We met at the language class. He asked me to the theatre.

You know, Lyn, he said over coffee after the play, I enjoy talking to you. Youre intriguing.

Really? My ex-husband thought I was boring.

Then he never knew how to listen.

Arthur listened. He appreciated my perspective, laughed at my jokes, and shared his own stories no attempt to seem younger.

What draws you to women? I asked him.

Brains. Kindness. Sincerity. You?

Honesty. And someone not afraid of his age.

We laughed about it.

Oliver calls occasionally. Holiday greetings, asks after my health like old family friends.

Are you happy? he asked once.

Yes, I replied without doubt. And you?

I dont know. Probably not.

Well, we all make choices.

I still keep the five-hundred-pound ring. I dont wear it it stays in my jewellery box, a reminder of how easy it is to devalue thirty years of life.

Arthur gave me an antique brooch for my birthday found at a flea market, not expensive, but chosen with care.

True beauty isnt about price, he said. Its about the feeling you give when you gift it.

And I realised: after fifty, life doesnt end. It simply starts afresh.

What do you think? Can you truly start anew in your mature years? Would love to hear your stories.