He watched her from the window… then crossed the threshold of another woman’s flat.
Martha paced the apartment like a trapped animal, gnawed by an unease she couldn’t put into words. For days, her husband’s behaviour had set alarms ringing. Simon had suddenly become the perfect family man—cleaning, cooking, bringing flowers. But who were these efforts for? Her? Or his own guilty conscience?
Staring out the window, Martha glanced at the courtyard below—and her heart clenched. There he was, the man who’d sworn loyalty, gazing at the neighbour with an intensity that made her stomach turn. She jerked back from the glass. *Could my Simon really do this?*
A sharp voice cut through the silence behind him.
“Who are you staring at so hard?”
Simon tore his eyes away from the graceful figure of Martha, who’d just been walking her spaniel, and turned to his wife.
“Emily, you scared me. I thought you were at work.”
“I’ve been here for minutes. You didn’t even notice.” Her voice trembled. “What’s on your mind?”
“Just… work,” he muttered. “The new bloke messed everything up again. Had to redo it all.”
Emily didn’t buy it. She knew her husband inside out—the way his lips twitched, the creases by his eyes. He was lying.
Simon tried to shift the topic, asking about dinner. “I’ve got a late meeting,” she said flatly. “Sort yourself something.” So he did—beans on toast. She nodded half-heartedly, though the sight of it made her grimace.
That evening, the office lost power, leaving Simon home early. He flicked through telly, paced aimlessly, then—inevitably—returned to the window. And there was Martha again. This time, he didn’t resist. He went downstairs, approached her.
“Hey. Fancy a coffee?”
Martha hesitated, but curiosity won. They sat in a café, laughter light, conversation effortless. Within the hour, he was in her flat. Lines were crossed. Simon knew he was betraying Emily, but guilt drowned under Martha’s smile.
Back home, their wedding photo taunted him. His own *forever* echoed in his skull. He shook it off, whipped up a shepherd’s pie—Emily’s favourite.
She returned glowing—promised a promotion at work. Praised the meal while Simon forced a smile. *If she knew, she’d fling this plate at my head*, he thought, clinging to his mask.
Days passed. He avoided Martha. Yet the pull grew stronger. The moment Emily left for work, he was at Martha’s door again—no pretence this time. Straight inside.
She seemed surprised but let him in. There was no romance—just novelty, mistaken for something deeper.
Emily noticed everything: the forced affection, the cold distance. And worst—his constant glance out the window. One evening, she looked too. And saw. Saw *her*.
“Are you cheating on me?!” she screamed, pointing.
Simon froze, then stumbled through denials. Too late. She threw him out, deaf to his pleading. He left—straight to Martha’s.
“She knows. Kicked me out. Can I stay?”
Martha paused. But the door opened.
Downstairs, in the flat that still smelled of shepherd’s pie, Emily stood with tear-streaked cheeks. Betrayed. Abandoned. The worst part? He hadn’t even fought for them. Just walked away.
But she wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t take back a liar. No. She’d get a cat. Maybe a terrier. And learn to live again—without pain, without illusions. With pride.
