**Diary Entry – 13th of November**
I knew something was off when Emily kept bustling between the kitchen, the bar, and the dining table, putting together salads and starters for the guests I’d invited over.
“Em, can we talk for a second?” I sighed, watching her wipe her hands on her apron.
“Of course, Daniel. What’s the matter?”
“There you go again—’Daniel.’ I’ve asked you before, love, it’s ‘Dan.’ Sounds less stiff. And those broad vowels of yours… Christ, it’s like listening to someone straight out of the countryside. No offence, but here in London, we don’t speak like that.”
She froze. “And why should I hide where I grew up? Back home, we pronounce things properly. Some folk drop their ‘h’s, some overenunciate—but you lot swallow half your words. What’s so wrong with ‘Danny,’ anyway? Your mates call you that, don’t they?”
“You’re missing the point,” I muttered. “Look, I’d rather you skip dinner tonight. It’s a business meeting. The lads—they’re serious people. No offence, but you’re not exactly their sort.”
Emily’s face went pale. “And what’s that supposed to mean? Not posh enough? Not educated enough to chat about investments and startups? Because your Sophie and Gemma, even that Lucy—none of them are economists. We sit at the corner table laughing at memes and swapping baby photos. What’s the issue?”
“You wouldn’t get it,” I said, faltering. “They’re from proper families. And you… well. It’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing?” Her voice cracked. “Was it embarrassing when I dragged you to A&E last winter? When we drove back from my parents’ with a boot full of homemade jams, was that a problem? But now, when you’ve got guests, suddenly I’m ‘not the right fit’?” She yanked off her apron and stormed upstairs.
“Em, wait—” I called, but the bedroom door slammed before I could finish.
She must’ve heard every word. After I left, she sat on the bed, hands pressed to her face. Anger and hurt twisted inside her like a knot. How many times had people warned her? A country girl like her, they said, would never fit in with a London bloke on the rise. But she’d believed in us. In the man she thought I was.
We’d met at uni—her studying library sciences, me in finance. I’d been awkward back then, a bit of a loner. The girls called me “Dorky Dan” behind my back, but Emily never laughed. She’d pitied me, even—hated how quick people were to judge. Later, at the library, we ran into each other again. I’d stuttered over some book request, and she’d just smiled. “Breathe. Slow down.” That was all it took. Dates followed. Long talks. Encouragement. I bloomed with her. Two years later, we married—even the sceptical aunties approved.
And now… this?
“So when you were nobody, I was good enough. But now you’re somebody, I’m baggage?” She dragged out a suitcase, called her sister.
“You’re staying here,” her sister said without hesitation. The kids would love having her.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
“Moving back home. There’s a job opening at the local library. I’ll rent a flat nearby. The rest can wait.”
My call came through just then.
“Where the hell are you? The lads will be here in two hours, and there’s no food, no hostess—”
“Darling, if I’m too common to sit with your ‘important’ friends, I suppose your dinner should be cooked by someone more refined. Sort it yourself. I’ve left.”
“Emily, have you lost your mind?”
“No. I’m walking out of your life. Filing for divorce tomorrow.”
She hung up, opened social media, and wrote a blunt post—how one evening could turn a wife from beloved to “the family disgrace.”
The backlash was instant. The wives and girlfriends of my mates took her side. Even my friends messaged: “Didn’t peg you for that sort, Dan.” I fired off a furious text: “You’ve turned everyone against me.”
As if I hadn’t brought it on myself. Did I really think those women—many from towns just like hers—wouldn’t see themselves in that “common” slur?
“You did this on purpose!” I spat later. “Ruined everything.”
“You ruined it the moment you decided I wasn’t good enough. You never really knew me, Dan.”
“Who’d even want you now?”
“Then why beg the judge for reconciliation?”
I had no answer.
“It’s pathetic,” I muttered. “Throwing away a marriage over nothing.”
“If you think respect is ‘nothing,’ you’re either cruel or stupid. And I’ve got no room for either.”
Emily walked to her sister’s, head high. Her dad was sorting her a flat. The job was waiting.
And love? She’d find it again. But now she knew—gratitude and respect mattered just as much as love ever did.
**Lesson learned:** No matter how far you climb, never step on the hands that pulled you up.
