**Diary Entry**
Lily changed after her promotion at the bank. Once quiet and easygoing, she became sharp-tongued and demanding. Anton, her husband, couldn’t grasp why. “What’s with all the complaints? Things were fine before.” She accused him of doing nothing at home—why was everything on her? Cooking, their son, cleaning. Anton didn’t see the issue. “In our three-bed flat in Bradford, there’s no real work for a man. The shelves are up, the taps don’t leak. And cooking? That’s not a man’s job.” Once, he hinted at wanting stew. Her reply? “Peel the veg, then I’ll make it.” He snapped. “Do it yourself! You’re the woman!”
Lily stayed later at work. Their son was always the last picked up from nursery. Anton pitied the boy, but going himself? What if they asked him to move a wardrobe or fix a pipe?
He felt unappreciated. “Why’d you even take that promotion?” he grumbled. “You were better off quiet—things would’ve stayed the same.” Lily just shrugged. “Then get your own promotion in development. Earn more, and I’ll quit, cook your stew, mind our boy. But we can’t live on two modest salaries anymore. My mum helped before—now she’s got her own expenses.” Anton scowled. “Oh, she just *had* to redecorate!”
He never wanted a higher position himself. Watching his manager slog through weekends, he’d say, “No thanks. I do my hours—then home.” But Lily’s nagging fuelled his bitterness. “Fine,” he thought. “If she wants to play boss, let her feel what loneliness is.” He started staying late too—then began an affair with Vera from accounting. Plain, but soft-spoken, curvy, and always baking.
Vera had a young son, but Anton didn’t mind. With her, he felt *needed*—warm blankets, hot dinners, admiring glances. They met more often. Meanwhile, Lily’s mum took over nursery pickups—Lily was buried in a major project. Anton smirked. “Perfect. She won’t cook, but I’m not starving. Vera feeds me *and* flatters me. Fair’s fair.”
Except Vera had rules. If Anton showed up without chocolates, perfume, or cash “for something nice,” the dinner grew plainer, her affection cooler. It unsettled him, but he shrugged. “She doesn’t want love—just attention and a little cash. Wait till Lily finds out I’m leaving. *Then* she’ll change her tune.”
When Vera casually asked for a fur coat, Anton knew the act was over.
He stormed home, waited for Lily, and glowered.
“Enough, Lily. I’m a *man*. I want dinner, a tidy house, clean socks! You get home first—why can’t you make soup? Or is laundry too hard?”
Lily stripped off her coat, dropped her bag, and sighed.
“That it?”
“No!” he blustered. “I’m leaving! For a woman who *values* me! My stuff’s packed—done! Live alone!”
“Good,” Lily nodded. “Go on. I’m sick of living with a lazy whinger. Leave the flat. *I* paid the mortgage. The solicitor will confirm—you never put a penny in.”
Anton burned. Where were the pleas? The tears? He expected her to cling, beg him to stay. Instead—cold maths.
Fuming, he grabbed his bag and went to Vera’s. Knocked firmly. “Darling, I’m yours now. For good!”
She opened the door, looked him up and down, and folded her arms.
“Who said you could move in? I’ve a kid, a rented place, a tiny wage. You’re not a solution—you’re a *cost*. Won’t pay? Piss off.”
The door slammed.
And there he stood on the landing—bag in hand, pride in tatters, empty-handed.
Unwanted. By wife or mistress.
Alone, truly alone, for the first time in years.
