I spent three days preparing a festive dinner for my husband’s 50th birthday, and when the guests sat down, he stood up, took my friend by the hand and announced to everyone that …

I prepared for this evening like it was a celebration. Fifty years is a significant milestone. I wanted everything to be perfect. I ordered the groceries in advance, crafted a menu, and thought through every detail. I spent three days in the kitchen. I made his favorite dishes, bought expensive wine, a new beautiful tablecloth, and candles.

We had been together for twenty-six years. Good years, peaceful ones. We raised two children, built a house, and went through tough times together. I thought I knew this man. I thought we were a team, that we had many more years ahead together.

The last few months, he started staying late at work. He said it was an important project, a hectic time. I didn’t think much of it. I trusted him, as I always did. He came home late, tired, and silent. I made him dinner without asking unnecessary questions. I thought everything would get better soon.

My friend started visiting me more often than usual. She complained about her life, about feeling lonely. I supported her, comforted her, and invited her over for tea. We had been friends for fifteen years. I trusted her like I trusted myself. I shared everything with her, talked about my worries, our children, and future plans.

That evening, I invited her first. I called her and said there would be a celebration, that I wanted her to be at our table. She happily agreed. She came dressed up, with a bouquet of flowers and a gift for my husband. She hugged me in the hallway and told me what a great job I had done. I smiled at her, happy she was there.

The guests arrived by seven in the evening. Family, friends, my husband’s colleagues. I was bustling around the kitchen, serving dishes, and making sure everyone was comfortable. My husband sat at the head of the table, receiving congratulations. He looked calm, even cheerful. I didn’t notice anything unusual.

When the cake was served, everyone stood with their glasses. Toasts were made. Beautiful words were spoken, wishes for health, happiness, and long years were shared. I stood beside my husband, proud of him, this evening, our family. Then, he raised his hand and asked everyone to be silent. He said he wanted to make a toast.

I smiled at him, thinking he would say something nice about me, about our life together. But he turned to my friend and held out his hand to her. She stood up and took his hand. I didn’t understand what was happening. Then he began to speak.

He said that they had been together for the last six months. That they met by chance when she visited me, that they started talking in the kitchen, exchanged numbers. That they fell in love with each other. That he had wanted to leave the family for a long time but didn’t have the courage. And today, on his fiftieth birthday, he decided to start a new life.

I stood there and listened to these words. I couldn’t move, couldn’t utter a sound. The guests were silent. Some lowered their eyes, some looked at me with pity. My friend stood next to my husband, holding his hand. She didn’t look at me. She just stood there, silent.

My husband said that they would be moving out today. That he had already packed his things, they were in the car. That I didn’t need to say anything, he had made his decision. He thanked me for the years we spent together, for the children, for the home. And he asked everyone to understand his choice.

Then they left. They just left the apartment. The guests started to leave. Some tried to hug me, to say something comforting. But I couldn’t hear it. I stood by the table, laden with food I had prepared for three days, and stared at the door.

I cleaned until morning. I threw away the food, washed the dishes, folded the tablecloth. I moved mechanically, without thinking about anything. Only by dawn did I sit in the kitchen, look at the empty apartment, and cry. For the first time that evening.

Two months have passed. They are living together, and he has filed for divorce. The children don’t speak to their father, unable to forgive what he did. I still can’t believe it happened. That the man I lived with for twenty-six years could humiliate me in front of everyone like that. That the friend I trusted for fifteen years could betray me in my own home, at my own table.

Tell me, could you forgive such betrayal? And how do you go on living?

***

For three days I prepared a festive dinner for my husband’s 50th birthday — I wanted everything to be perfect. I set the table for fifteen guests, decorated the house, and waited with my heart pounding. When everyone had gathered and taken their seats, I raised my glass to make a toast. But my husband suddenly stood up and stopped me with a gesture. He took the hand of my best friend who was sitting next to him. I froze, not understanding what was happening. He looked at the guests and said words that nearly made the glass slip from my hands…
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