For weeks, a cold knot of suspicion had been tightening in my chest. My boyfriend, Mark, had always been open and honest, but lately, he was acting different. He was distracted, constantly checking his watch, and frequently disappearing into the kitchen or his office with a small, worn leather notebook.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday afternoon. While he was out for a run, I found the notebook left open on the kitchen counter. My heart dropped when I saw the page. It was a meticulously kept list of dates and times. Every entry was organized under a single, recurring name: ‘Sasha.’
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Jan 12, 8:00 AM
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Jan 12, 8:00 PM
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Jan 13, 7:30 AM
I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought my relationship was over; the evidence of another woman seemed undeniable. When Mark walked through the door ten minutes later, I didn’t give him a chance to say hello. I confronted him, throwing the evidence at him and demanding to know who she was.
Mark didn’t look guilty. Instead, he looked confused, staring at the notebook as if I were speaking a foreign language. Finally, a look of realization dawned on his face, followed by a sheepish, half-embarrassed grin.
“Sasha is my sourdough starter,” he explained softly, walking over to the pantry and pulling out a glass jar filled with a bubbling, beige mixture. “Those are feeding times.“
The silence that followed was heavy with my own embarrassment. He had spent months trying to master the perfect loaf of bread, giving his starter a name to keep track of its “personality” and needs. I felt relieved but foolish, realizing I am now jealous of a jar of fermented flour. It turns out the only “other woman” in our relationship was a science project in a jar that required a strict breakfast and dinner schedule.