**Secrets of the Soul: A Marriage Saved**
Emily packed her belongings, her mind replaying the years of their marriage. She intended to slip away quietly, without explanations—just a note left behind. It would be easier for both of them, she thought, folding clothes into her suitcase. But every item, every little thing, dredged up memories. There was the jumper Victor had given her in their second year together. She’d scoffed at his choice, told him the colour didn’t suit her. He hadn’t argued—just tucked it away in the wardrobe. And yet, she’d secretly worn it for years when he wasn’t looking.
She didn’t know what to do with these keepsakes. Throw them out? Leave them behind? She decided to box them up and seal them with tape, so the past wouldn’t spill out. But there was no tape at hand. She remembered seeing a roll in Victor’s study when she’d tidied last week. Stepping inside, she pulled open the desk drawer—and froze. Among the papers lay a notebook. Not just any notebook. A diary, its cover worn from use.
Her hand reached for it before she could stop herself. *“If I’m already betraying him by leaving, what’s one more trespass?”* she thought. Curiosity tangled with guilt. Maybe here, in these pages, was an answer. Did he have another woman? Regrets about their marriage? Emily opened it—and her world turned upside down.
He wrote about *her*. Page after page—her name, her habits, her smile. She sank into his chair, unable to tear her eyes away. Victor *remembered* everything. Even the jumper she’d mocked. He had written how much it stung when she dismissed his gift, how he vowed never to risk disappointing her again. *“Mum always said I got things wrong. Now Emily thinks so too,”* one entry read. Her throat tightened as tears burned.
Further in, his childhood unfolded. A mother who scolded him for laughing too loud, for joking, for speaking out of turn. Who berated him for his crooked smile, for talking too fast. Once, he’d brought her a bouquet made of autumn leaves—she’d waved it off. *“Why bring me rubbish? Should’ve picked something proper.”* Emily read, and suddenly she saw him—a little boy, punished for his joy, for wanting to make others happy. Without realising, she’d done the same when she scoffed at that jumper.
But most of all—he still loved her. Loved her fiercely. He admired her strength at work, treasured watching her cook or sleep. In the mornings, he lingered just to study her face, careful not to wake her. He noticed the way she frowned in her dreams, how she tugged at the duvet. The latest entry, from yesterday, shattered her: Victor longed to take her wild camping—canoeing down the Wye, like he had as a boy when life was simple. But he was afraid she’d refuse, laugh it off like she had his other ideas. *“Probably won’t ask,”* he’d written.
Emily shut the diary, feeling the walls she’d built crumble. She wasn’t the betrayer anymore. Without these pages, she’d never have truly known her husband. Their marriage had teetered on the edge—now she saw a lifeline.
The front door creaked. Victor was home. She hadn’t even noticed the hours slipping by.
“Em? You’re not at work?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.
She stepped into the hallway, still clutching the diary. His face paled when he saw it, but she spoke before he could.
“I’m in,” she said firmly.
“In for what?” Confusion flickered in his eyes.
“The trip. Canoeing. I’ve already started packing.” She took a breath. “I’m sorry, Vic. I found your diary. I had to read it. It’s… the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re incredible. And I—I was wrong. Let’s start fresh, yeah? Talk more. Share more. Love without hiding?”
Victor pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could feel his heartbeat. He rested his chin on her head, voice rough.
“Didn’t come back for lunch. Cleared my day. Wanted to talk, but I thought you might—” He swallowed hard.
“Or,” he murmured, drawing back to meet her eyes, “we could go to the shops? Pick you a new jumper? Time we wrote a new chapter in this story, don’t you think?”
Emily nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. She turned to finish packing—not to leave, but to begin again, with the man she was only just learning to truly know.
