**Diary Entry 10th June 2024**
On the morning of our golden wedding anniversary, my husband confessed hed loved another woman his entire life.
“Not that one, John, not that one! How many times must I tell you?”
Eleanor sighed irritably and waved a hand toward the old record player. John, my husband of fifty years, shrugged guiltily and resumed shuffling through the stack of vinyl records piled neatly on the oak sideboard.
“Which one, then? This one? ‘Moon River’?” He glanced at me dubiously.
“‘Moon River’? For heavens sake, I asked for ‘Lavender Blue’! The children will be here any minute, and weve got silence like a funeral parlour. Its our golden anniversary, Johnfifty years! Do you even understand what that means?”
John exhaled, his stooped shoulders sagging further. Hed always been a quiet man, but with age, hed retreated entirely into himself. Id long grown used to his silence, to that distant look in his eyes, as though he were staring straight through me, beyond the walls of our cosy little cottage in Kent. Id put it down to tiredness, to age, to his temperament. Fifty years was no small thing. You learned to live with it.
When the familiar melody finally played, I softened at once, smoothing the creases in my champagne-coloured dressa gift from our daughter, Charlotte. The room smelled of freshly baked pies and vanilla. The dining table, draped in crisp white linen, gleamed with crystal glasses and polished silver. Everything was ready. For *our* celebration.
“Thats more like it,” I muttered, more out of habit than irritation. “Go put on your good shirt, for goodness sake. Dont embarrass me in front of the grandchildren.”
He nodded silently and shuffled out. I was alone. I took in the fruits of my labourthe gleaming hardwood floors, the starched curtains, the framed photographs lining the walls. There we were, young and bright-eyed in black and white, standing awkwardly at our wedding. Meslender, laughing, with a crown of daisies in my hair. Himsolemn in his suit, staring straight at the camera. Another of us holding baby Edward, then years later, the four of usEdward and Charlotteon holiday in Cornwall. A whole lifetime. Fifty years.
It felt like yesterday. Mea city girl, fresh out of teachers college, sent to a little village school in the countryside. Meeting him, the local engineer, quiet and a bit awkward. He never gave grand speeches or bouquets of roses. He was just *there*fixing my leaky tap, meeting me after work in the snow, bringing jars of his mothers homemade jam. His steadiness won me over more than any grand romance ever could. And when he proposed, Id said yes without hesitation.
The doorbell shattered the memory. The children arrived in a flurry of laughter, arms full of flowers, grandchildren tumbling in behind them. Edwardserious, dependable Edward, now a doctorsheepishly presented us with a weeks stay at a spa in the Cotswolds. Charlotte, my chatterbox, read a tearful poem shed written. The grandchildren thrust crayon drawings into our hands.
I glowed. Seated at the head of the table beside John, I felt like a queen. My life had been good. A loving husband, wonderful children, a home filled with warmth. What more could anyone want? I glanced at John. He sat straight-backed in his best shirt, smiling. But the smile didnt reach his eyes. They were fixed on something far away.
The evening melted into laughter and stories. Eventually, the guests left, the grandchildren were bundled into cars, and silence settled again. Only the soft hum of the record player remained.
“Lovely evening, wasnt it?” I said, clearing the last of the dishes. “The children did us proud. And the little ones”
John didnt answer. He stood at the window, staring into the dark. I went to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“What is it, John? Tired?”
He flinched at my touch, turning slowly. In the dim lamplight, his face looked gaunt, unfamiliar.
“Ellie,” he began, voice unsteady. “Ellie, I…”
“Whats wrong?” My stomach twisted. “Are you unwell? Is it your heart?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I have to tell you. I cant carry it any longer. Fifty years… its too long.”
I froze. My hands fell to my sides. A cold dread clawed up my throat.
“Tell me what? Youre frightening me.”
He took a deep breath, eyes averted. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth.
“On our golden anniversary… seems fitting. To be honest. Just once.”
The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock.
“Ive loved another woman my whole life, Ellie.”
The words dropped like stones into still water. I stared, uncomprehending. It had to be a joke. A cruel, ridiculous joke.
“*What?*” My voice was a whisper. “Who?”
“Lydia,” he breathed, and the namespoken with such aching tendernessburned worse than a slap. “Lydia Whitmore. You remember her? We were at school together.”
Lydia Whitmore. Of course I remembered her. Vivacious, golden-haired, the girl every boy fancied. Shed married a navy officer and left the village right after graduation. I hadnt seen her since.
“But… that was *school*,” I stammered, clawing for sense. “A childhood crush”
“No, Ellie.” His smile was bitter. “Not just a crush. I was going to propose after my service. Wrote to her. When I came home… she was already married. Gone to Portsmouth with her husband a month later.”
As he spoke, my world crumbled. Fifty years of marriage shrank into one vast lie.
“Then why” My voice cracked. “*Why* did you marry me?”
“I was broken,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Mum said, ‘Stop moping. Life goes on. Ellies a good girlsensible, kind.’ So I thought… why not? You were good. Steady. I thought Id forget her.”
“And did you?” The words tore out of me, raw with pain.
His silence was answer enough.
I staggered back, staring at this grey-haired stranger. This wasnt my Johnnot the quiet, dependable man Id built a life with. This was someone whod stolen fifty years from me.
“All this time…” My voice broke. “When you said you loved meyou lied? When the children were bornyou were thinking of *her*? When we painted this house, when we took holidaysalways?”
“I was grateful to you, Ellie,” he said hoarsely. “I respected you. You were a wonderful wife, mother. I… grew to care for you. But it wasnt *that* love. Not the kind that stops your heart.”
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a battered old wallet. From a hidden compartment, he withdrew a tiny, faded photograph. I looked. Lydia Whitmore stared backyoung, radiant, hair tossed by the wind.
“I carried her with me. Always.”
Something in me shattered. I turned, stumbling to the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed in my good dress. The sobs camedry, silent heaves that wracked my whole body. The world had gone grey. Only one word remained: *lie*.
I dont know how long I lay there. John didnt follow. Maybe that was for the best. I didnt want to see him. Didnt want to see *anyone*. Memories taunted me. Planting the apple tree in the garden”Well feed the grandchildren from this,” hed said. Had he pictured Lydia beside him instead? Our housewarmingfriends cheering, his dutiful kiss, the hollow look in his eyes.
I rose, faced the mirror. A tear-streaked, aged woman stared back. I traced the wrinkles, the grey strands. Fifty years. Id given him everythingyouth, love, devotion. And he… hed merely existed beside me, clinging to a ghost.
I didnt sleep. At dawn, I rose mechanically, made tea, toast. When John entered the kitchen, I didnt meet his eyes.
“What now?” My voice was flat.
“I dont know, Ellie.” He looked wretched. “I shouldnt have told you. Maybe it wouldve been better”
“*Better?* To live a lie my whole life? Do you have any idea what youve done? Youve erased *everything*.”
“No.” He looked up, desperate. “The childrentheyre real. The grandchildren. This home. Everything we built*thats* real.”
“And love? Was *that* real?”
He bowed his head.
I turned to the window. A new day was starting. A street sweeper cleared autumn leaves. Mothers walked
