For three Saturdays in a row, my wife has left ‘for work’. What I saw turned everything upside down.
“Late again?” Mark tries to keep his voice steady, but it betrays him with a slight tremble.
Emma freezes, her hand gripping her bag. She turns slowly, as if buying time.
“Yeah, the projects a mess. The boss is losing it, and everyones running around.”
“On a Saturday? Three weeks in a row?”
“Mark, dont be childish. Work is work.”
She kisses him on the cheekquick, perfunctory, like a neighbour in a lift. She doesnt smell like her usual perfume. Something sweet and milky lingers instead. Mark wrinkles his nose.
“Em, can we talk?”
“Later. Everything later, okay?”
The door slams shut. Mark stands in the hallway, fists clenched. Three Saturdays. Three bloody Saturdays in a row where his wife leaves early and comes home exhausted, silent, a stranger.
He cant take it anymore. Grabbing the car keys, he rushes out.
Emma steps out of the building, glancing around. Mark ducks in the carthankfully parked behind a van. She hails a cab. He starts the engine.
They drive for ages. Not to her officethat much is obvious. To some residential area on the other side of town. His heart pounds wildly. Hes about to see. About to understand.
Emma gets out near a shabby five-storey block. Mark parks further down and follows. She disappears into the building. He waits, counting floors by the windows. Third. Left side.
Nothing happens for half an hour. Then Emma reappears.
With a pram.
Mark nearly stumbles. A pram? A baby? They dont have children. They were only just starting to planuntil these Saturdays began.
The baby wails. Emma rocks the pram, murmuring something. She looks flustered, out of her depth. A young woman rushes outMark recognises Emmas younger sister, Lily. The same irresponsible Lily whos been married and divorced twice by twenty-five.
“Em, thank you! Ill be quick, two hours tops!”
“Lily, you said one hour!”
“Please, Em! I really need this!”
Lily dashes off, leaving Emma with the screaming infant. She pushes the pram helplessly back and forth.
Mark steps back behind the corner, leaning against the wall. So, not an affair. A nephew. But why the secrecy? Why the lies?
He hurries back to the car and drives home. He needs to beat Emma there. Needs to think.
At home, he paces. He could just ask. “Emma, where have you been?” But shed liehe knows it. Just like hes been lying too.
Because he has a secret of his own.
Sophie. The receptionist from the neighbouring department. Nothing seriousjust chats after work, coffee, the occasional film. She listens to his coding stories, laughs at his jokes, looks at him with admiration. The way Emma used to. Before their life became “buy bread”, “pay the bills”, “you left your socks everywhere”.
With Sophie, its easy. She reminds him of the Emma he fell for seven years ago. Bright, carefree, happy to listen to him ramble about algorithms for hours.
The key turns in the lock. Mark jumps, grabs the remote, and flicks on the telly.
“Hey,” Emma peeks into the room. “Youve been home all day?”
“Yeah. Couldnt be bothered to go out.”
She heads to the kitchen. Mark hears water running, dishes clinking. He follows.
Emma stands at the sink, scrubbing a mug. Her shoulders slump, shadows under her eyes. A stain on her jeansbaby formula, maybe.
“Em.”
“What?”
“Youre exhausted.”
She turns, surprised.
“Yeah. I am.”
“Fancy dinner out? That Italian place we went to for our anniversary?”
“Mark, Im shattered. Lets just order pizza?”
He nods, watching as she pulls out her phone to call for delivery. Her hands shake.
“Em, whats going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“Youve been different. For weeks.”
She freezes. The phone slips from her fingers, clattering onto the table.
“Its just work, Mark. A lot of work.”
“On Saturdays?”
“Yes! On Saturdays! Why wont you drop it?”
Her voice cracks. Shes close to tears. He steps forward, pulls her into a hug. She stiffens, then sags against him, face buried in his shoulder.
“Sorry. Im just so tired.”
She smells of baby powder and something sourspit-up, probably. Mark rubs her back, feeling her heartbeat race.
“Em, if somethings wrong, tell me. Im not a stranger.”
She pulls away, wiping her eyes.
“Its fine. Really. Just a rough patch. Itll pass.”
The pizza arrives forty minutes later. They eat in silence, avoiding each others eyes. Emma showers afterwards while Mark stays in the kitchen, picking at a cold slice of pepperoni.
He could say it. “Emma, I saw you with a pram. Is that Lilys?” But then hed have to admit he followed her. And shed ask, “And you? Where were you on Friday nights?”
What would he say? That he sat in a café with another woman? That he told her things he hasnt told his wife in years? That sometimes he wonderswhat if?
His phone buzzes. A text from Sophie: “See you Monday? Want to show you that film I mentioned.”
Mark deletes it. No. They wont meet. Enough.
Emma steps out of the bathroom in a towel, hair damp, skin flushed. She sits beside him.
“Mark, lets stay in tomorrow. Just us.”
“What about work?”
“Work can wait.”
He smiles. When was the last time she said that?
“Alright. Just us.”
She takes his hand. Her fingers are cold, despite the hot shower.
“We lost something, didnt we?”
“What?”
“Us. We lost us.”
Mark squeezes her hand.
“Well find it.”
They sleep in the next morning. Emma makes pancakesfirst time in a year. Mark brews coffee, chops fruit. They eat on the balcony, even though its chilly.
“Remember breakfast in Paris?” Emma says. “On that tiny terrace?”
“Where you nearly dropped a cup on some poor blokes head?”
“I did not nearly drop it! I just put it down badly!”
They laugh. How long since they laughed together?
The day feels odd, like playing newlyweds. They binge a show curled up on the sofa. Cook togetherMark chops, Emma stirs the sauce. They dont talk about work, money, or plans. Just the here and now.
That night, Emma falls asleep on his shoulder. Mark studies her facerelaxed, peaceful. The frown between her brows is gone. She looks like the girl who spilled coffee on his shirt seven years ago. “Oh, sorry! Let me pay for dry cleaning! Oror Ill buy you another coffee?”
He bought her one instead. Then another. Then dinner. Then a ring.
Emma twitches in her sleep, murmuring. Mark tucks the blanket around her.
On Monday, he finds Sophie.
“Hi! Thought you forgot about the film”
“Soph, we need to talk.”
Her face falls. Shes sharpshe already knows.
“Your wife?”
“Yes. No. I meanI cant do this anymore.”
“Mark, nothing even happened.”
“Exactly. And it wont. Im sorry.”
She nods, turns to her computer.
“Go. Just go.”
He leaves. His chest feels heavy and light all at once. He did the right thing. Long overdue.
Emma isnt home. A note on the fridge: “Back by seven. Dinner in the oven.”
He reheats the food, sets the table. Emma arrives on time but seems jittery.
“Mark, I need to tell you something.”
He freezes. Here it comes.
“Lily has a son. Four months old. His dad left when he found out. Shes aloneno job, no money. Ive been helping. Looking after the baby while she interviews or just needs a break. Sorry I didnt tell you. Thought youd be against it.”
“Why would I be?”
“Well were trying for our own. And here I am babysitting someone elses. And giving her money sometimes. From my salary,” she adds quickly.
Mark stands, walks around the table, and pulls her into a hug.
“Silly. Of course you help. Shes your sister.”
Emma sniffles, burying her face in his chest.
“Im so tired of lying. Tired of making up excuses.”
“Done. No more lies.”
He thinks of Sophie. Of his
