*Diary Entry, 12th October*
“You were the one who suggested taking my mum in. I didn’t force you,” said Christopher to Emily.
After finishing university, Emily joined the company where Christopher already worked. He noticed the quiet, pretty girl straight away. As the office veteran, he gave her the tour, then waited by the exit in his car after work. That’s how they started seeing each other. Six months later, they married.
Christopher had only recently bought a flat, leaving no money for renovations. Emily’s parents helped. The young couple threw themselves into making their first home—shopping for furniture, picking wallpaper, staying up late to hang it themselves. Sometimes, they enlisted friends. The work was chaotic but cheerful. Emily chose every cushion and lampshade with care. When the renovations were done, they celebrated with a raucous housewarming. Now, all that was left was to enjoy life.
“Brilliant, isn’t it? Let’s hold off on kids. We’ll go on holiday first, relax, then…” Christopher would say.
June was warm, the air thick with drifting pollen. They spent evenings planning their trip—booking hotels, comparing flights. But disaster struck from nowhere, and their holiday never happened.
One morning, as Emily sat at the kitchen table applying mascara and Christopher watched the kettle boil, the phone rang.
“Em, coffee’s ready,” he said, picking up.
Emily lifted the cup to her lips.
“What?” Christopher barked into the phone.
Her hand jerked. Scalding coffee spilled across the table.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing his face.
“Mum’s in hospital. The neighbour called. I’ll go—warn work I’ll be late.”
“Of course.” Emily stared at the brown puddle.
“Leave it. The bus won’t wait,” he said, and she obeyed, rushing out.
She was hurrying to the stop when Christopher sped past, giving a quick honk. Emily waved, licking her burnt lip.
Three hours later, he appeared at her office.
“It’s bad. A stroke. Right side paralysed. Can’t speak. Doctor says recovery’s unlikely. She can’t live alone.”
“Then let’s take her in. What’s there to think about? Or do you plan to drive over every evening to feed her, change her pads? This way, we save time.”
Christopher agreed—too quickly, she thought.
Three weeks later, they brought Margaret, his mother, home from the hospital. Emily and Christopher gave up their bedroom.
“Should we take holiday in turns to care for her? We can’t leave her alone,” Emily whispered in the kitchen.
“Em, you’re better at this. Stay home tomorrow—I’ll arrange remote work. We’ve sunk everything into the flat. A nurse is too expensive. She needs medicine, physio…”
Again, Emily obeyed.
She spun like a hamster on a wheel—spoon-feeding Margaret, changing diapers. The second she opened her laptop, Margaret would moan for her. Then there were groceries, cooking. By the time Christopher came home, Emily was dead on her feet.
The exhaustion festered into resentment. He never helped, only popped in to say hello. Her work suffered; documents came back with errors. Then her boss rang—Christopher had asked to let her go. They’d already replaced her.
“You can hold a spoon with your good hand! Help me, for God’s sake!” Emily snapped at Margaret once.
“How dare you decide for me?” she raged at Christopher later.
“You’re not coping.”
“You could try helping! I’m drowning here.” She gripped her head. “That smell—I change her constantly, but it lingers. I open a window, and she moans about the cold.”
“You offered to take Mum in. I didn’t force you.”
The words winded her. She’d shackled herself.
One night, Christopher came home drunk from a work do. They screamed at each other—like they did most days now. Emily had had enough. She yanked dresses from the wardrobe, hurling them onto the sofa.
“I’m done. She’s your mother. You look after her. I’m leaving—”
A moan came from the bedroom.
“What now?” Emily stormed in.
Tears glistened on Margaret’s cheeks. Emily wiped them away. Margaret clutched her nightdress, garbling, “Don’t go… don’t go…”
Emily sat on the bed and wept. Margaret stroked her hair.
“Forgive me. I’m just so tired.” She fled—colliding with Christopher in the doorway. Her glare could’ve scorched him.
The next day, she left before he returned. She needed air. At her friend Lucy’s, they drank wine and cried.
“Couldn’t you… speed things up?” Lucy hinted, tapping her nose.
“How could you say that? If it were my mum?” Emily never went back.
(She’d had those thoughts too. It terrified her.)
A month later, Margaret died in her sleep. The paramedic said her tongue blocked her airway—but Emily blamed herself. She’d slept too deeply, heard nothing…
At the funeral, Christopher wiped his eyes. “Never lifted a finger, now the tears?” Emily thought bitterly. She left before the coffin was lowered.
“Goldfish!” a voice called.
She turned. A man in a flapping black coat grinned—Daniel, her old classmate.
“You look miles away. Funeral?”
“My mother-in-law.”
“Rough time?”
She nodded.
“Lost my mum four months back. Cared for her a year. Wife left the second she got ill. So I get it.”
“Alone? You did it alone?”
“Course. She was my mum. Your husband still back there?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Need a lift?”
They’d just passed the cemetery gates when her phone buzzed.
“Why’d you leave? Where are you?” Christopher’s voice was calm. (*The act’s over*, she thought.)
“Tired. Going home.” She hung up.
Daniel suggested a drink. She didn’t care—anything not to return to that sickroom smell.
At the café, the wine was sharp, delicious. She gulped it.
“Easy,” Daniel said, pushing a plate of salad toward her.
She talked and talked. He listened, never interrupting, his warm hand covering hers.
(*Christopher never touches me anymore. Is this the end?* she wondered.)
“I wished her dead. I fell asleep, didn’t hear her—”
“Not your fault.”
Daniel took her home. She was half-asleep when Christopher’s voice cut in:
“Who the hell are you?”
“Let her sleep,” Daniel said.
In the morning, Christopher was gone. Her phone buzzed—Daniel.
“Goldfish, how’s the head?”
“Awful.”
“Shower, strong tea. Then come see me.”
That evening, in his office:
“You did French and German at uni, right?”
“And some Spanish.”
“Perfect. You’re hired. We need an in-house translator.”
She smiled for the first time in months.
“You shouldn’t have agreed. I’d have got your old job back,” Christopher said later.
On the fortieth day, Emily visited the grave. A lone wreath sagged, flowers dead. Christopher hadn’t come. She tidied up.
Margaret’s photo stared, almost accusatory.
“Forgive me. And thank you—for showing me the truth. I’m leaving him.”
With her first paycheck, she rented a flat and filed for divorce. Christopher begged her back. When she collected her things, the flat felt suffocating—though the sickness smell had faded.
“You’re with him?”
“No. He’s just my boss. An old friend.”
She walked out, mourning wasted years.
“Why’d you never notice me at school?” she asked Daniel over lunch.
“I did. You were too busy studying. Goldfish and Pigeon—never a match.”
“It’s not Goldfish anymore. It’s Nicholls.”
“Easily fixed. Take my name?”
Margaret’s illness had been a test. People come into your life for a reason.
Emily couldn’t pretend nothing had changed. She’d outgrown the woman she was.
*Lesson learned: Love isn’t just words. It’s showing up. And sometimes, walking away.*
