**Diary Entry – 14th May**
Emma was still at the mirror when I peeked into the bedroom.
“Love, they’ll be here any minute,” I said, impatient.
“Almost done,” she murmured, not turning from the mirror. She rubbed her lips together, shook her head just enough to tousle her perfectly styled hair, adjusted the neckline of her dress, and finally faced me with a smile. “Ready.”
“Blimey, you look stunning.” I pulled her close.
“Careful, my lipstick,” she laughed, tilting her head back to avoid smudging my shirt. Her eyes shone, playful and warm.
“Emma…” My voice caught, but the doorbell rang. “Typical.” I sighed, loosening my arms, and went to answer.
In the hall stood Oliver, boisterous as ever, holding a bouquet of roses. Beside him, his wife Sophie clutched a gift bag.
“Where’s the birthday girl?” Oliver bellowed, rustling the bouquet’s wrapping. He spotted Emma and grinned. “There she is! Em, you look radiant. Tom, watch out—I might steal her.” He planted a loud kiss on her cheek before handing over the flowers. “To many more—”
“Save the speeches for the table,” I cut in.
“Tom, fetch the slippers. I’ll put these in water,” Emma said, disappearing toward the kitchen.
The flat suddenly felt cramped, alive with noise. Oliver hovered by the dining table, rubbing his hands. “Emma, this spread! I’ll drool myself to death.”
“Patience,” she teased, returning with the roses in a vase. She set them on the side table by the window.
“Clown,” Sophie muttered under her breath, rolling her dark eyes.
Emma touched her shoulder—a silent comfort—just as the bell rang again.
“This is Laura,” my brother Max announced, handing Emma another bouquet. “And my sister, Emma.”
“Pleasure,” Emma said warmly. Laura barely nodded. “Sorry, no spare slippers left.”
“I’ll give her mine,” Max said.
Emma shot him a look—*What on earth do you see in her?*
“Introductions later,” Max dismissed, steering Laura into the room.
Oliver and Sophie sat apart, oddly distant. I poured whisky for the lads, wine for the ladies. Laura sat rigid, uninterested, even as Max piled salad onto her plate.
*Bloody ice queen*, I could almost hear Emma thinking.
I stood, raising my glass. “To Emma.”
Glasses clinked, cutlery scraped. Oliver ate noisily, praising the food while stealing glances at Sophie, who kept her eyes down. Laura chewed slowly, ignoring Max’s whispers. Emma relaxed—*See? Nothing to worry about.*
Later, I fetched my guitar. A few tuning strums, then I sang *”Wonderful Tonight”*—soft, just for her. Emma swayed, joining in. We harmonised perfectly. The room held its breath until the last note faded.
Midway through *”Sweet Caroline”*, Sophie slipped out to the kitchen. Emma followed.
Sophie stood by the window, cigarette trembling between her fingers. Ash smeared the sill as she brushed it away.
“What’s wrong?” Emma asked.
“Nothing.” Sophie exhaled smoke. “Just needed air.”
“You used to love Tom’s singing.”
“I still do.” She glanced at the door.
From the dining room, Oliver’s off-key bellowing: *”I’m gonna be (500 Miles)!”*
“Emma… I need a favour,” Sophie whispered.
“Money?”
“No. It’s… I’ve fallen for someone.”
Emma froze. “What about Oliver?”
“What about him?” Sophie snapped, then lowered her voice. “It’s over between us.”
“You have a son.”
“We’re done,” Sophie said. “This new doctor at the hospital—I’m *gone*, Emma. I’ve never felt like this. We’ve been meeting at Mum’s, but she’s back now…”
Emma’s lips pressed thin. “You want to use our flat?”
“Just a few hours, sometimes. Please.”
“No.”
Sophie’s eyes welled. “I can’t *breathe* without him.”
“You’ll ruin everything. Oliver adores you.”
“He’ll get over it.”
Emma’s voice turned sharp. “I won’t help you cheat.”
I interrupted, pretending not to notice the tension. “Dinner’s getting cold.”
Back at the table, the mood soured. Oliver glared at his plate; Sophie pushed food around.
*Should’ve stayed out of it*, Emma fumed silently.
Later, Sophie stood abruptly. “We’re leaving. Need to fetch Ethan.”
Oliver grumbled but followed. At the door, Sophie avoided Emma’s eyes.
Max and Laura left soon after, citing early mornings.
“*What* just happened?” Emma sighed, clearing plates.
“Marital spat?” I guessed, helping.
Emma nodded. “She’s unhappy with Oliver.”
We tidied in comfortable silence until the phone rang.
“Sophie’s mum,” Emma muttered, answering. “They left hours ago— No, their phones are off…”
My stomach dropped.
Then my phone buzzed. Oliver’s voice was hollow. “I hit her. She’s… gone.”
Chaos. The taxi ride home. Oliver waking to Sophie arguing with the driver. A shove. Her skull meeting the table’s edge.
Two years for manslaughter. We took Ethan in. His grandma barely survived the grief.
Oliver emerged from prison a shadow. Ethan, now in primary school, shrank from him.
“I’m joining a monastery,” Oliver said quietly. “I’ve prayed on it. Better he remembers me this way.”
Last summer, we visited—Oliver, now Brother Theophan, bearded and serene in his cassock.
“You look… peaceful,” I said.
“I am.” His voice was calm. “I dream of Sophie. We talk.”
Driving home, Emma whispered, “D’you think he’s lost it?”
“No. He’s found something.”
Near the end, he’d squeezed Emma’s hands. *”It’ll happen for you. Believe.”*
She glowed, hopeful. I didn’t dampen it.
Funny—I never trusted Oliver’s whims. But Theophan? I *wanted* to believe.
**Lesson:** Some wounds don’t heal clean. But faith—in love, in redemption, in the unseen—can be enough to live by.
