21March2025
Dear Diary,
Emma burst into the flat this afternoon, her eyes wide, a cup of tea trembling in her hand. Are you sure youre alright? I asked, trying to sound calm. People dont make such decisions in a week.
She pushed the mug aside, took a deep breath and said, Ive thought it through, Lucy. For the first time in years I actually know what I want.
I tried to be supportive, Its not love, just hormones!
She rolled her eyes. Numbers stopped meaning anything when real feelings were involved. Ive decided, she repeated, firmer now. Im going to talk to Victor tonight.
Lucy nodded silently, finishing her latte, while Emmas mind had already drifted to the little coffeeshop on King Street where Victor waited, his gaze making her legs feel weak.
That evening Victor was sitting on the edge of the bed wed chosen together twelve years ago, arguing over whether the bedroom needed a canopy. We never bought one. Over the years wed shared few conversations, touches, or glances. Our marriage had become a polite cohabitation, dividing square footage and the household budget.
Ive found someone else, Emma blurted. Four words. Shed rehearsed a speech for days, practiced in the shower, scribbled notes on her phone, but only those four escaped.
Victor didnt shout. He didnt fling anything. He simply nodded, slowly, as if confirming a longheld suspicion, then began to pack his things methodically, folding shirts exactly as he always didcollar to collar. There was something unsettlingly orderly about his movements.
Mark he began.
No, dont. I get it, he said without turning. Im going to my parents house.
The door closed with a soft click, quieter than any argument could have been. A strange mix of guilt and relief surged inside Emma; the flat suddenly felt cavernous, like an empty concert hall. She was free.
Three days later I spoke to my parents. As expected, they didnt approve.
My dear, do you realise what youre doing? my mother loomed over me like a hawk. Twelve years of marriage, all for a boy? For a lad?
Dad, hes twentyfour, hes an adult
Adult! my father grunted, sinking heavily onto a squeaky chair. Victor is the one whos put up with you, paid the bills all those years, and you dump him like this
He never supported me. I run my own boutique, Sir.
Youre disgracing the family, my father added, his voice dull.
I rose from the table, legs feeling like jelly, and forced myself to stay composed.
I thought youd back me, I said.
We thought wed raised a smart daughter, my mother replied, turning to the window. Guess we were wrong.
I left the flat without looking back. In the lift I dialed Mark: Pick me up. He arrived twenty minutes later, wrapped his arms around me, and for a moment all the turmoil seemed to melt away.
Friends Id known through couples barbecues and NewYears parties vanished one by one. Kate texted, Sorry, Emma, I cant. Victor is like a brother to me, you understand. Olivia stopped replying. Megan sent a long message about betrayal and selfishness, after which I stared at the screen for minutes, unable to answer, then deleted five years of chats and forbade myself from crying.
For three weeks I was surrounded by a void. Mark took me to meet his matesyoung lads chatting about streams, TikToks and the latest music videos. I laughed, nodded, yet an acute, almost physical loneliness gnawed at me. I didnt get most of the jokes, didnt know the names they tossed around, and realized the only person I could really talk to was Mark himself. But Mark was often preoccupied with his friends, leaving me alone in a noisy room.
This will pass, I whispered to myself. Well build something new.
One night, Mark lay beside me, running his fingers through my hair. What if we left? Go to another city. A fresh startno exhusbands, no meddling parents. Begin on a clean slate.
I lifted my head, studying his face in the dim light.
Are you serious?
Absolutely. I have contacts in Manchester; the photography markets thriving there. You could open a new studiobigger, better.
The word studio struck a chord under my ribs. My own studioeight years of building a client base, training assistants from scratch. Could I abandon it?
His eyes shone with confidence and excitement, and I nodded. Yes. Start over. Prove that this wasnt a midlife crisis or a whim, but a genuine drive worth the risk.
I sold my studio within three weeks, for far less than it was worth because the buyer sensed my urgency and squeezed every possible discount. I signed the papers with trembling hands, watched the money transfer to my account, and felt a strange sensationlike Id cut off a piece of myself and handed it to a stranger in a beige suit.
Everythings settled, I told Mark that evening. Were free.
He lifted me into his arms, spun me around the room, and I laugheda real, ringing laugh I hadnt heard from my own mouth in years. The sale money seemed huge, enough for any plan. We first rented a flat nearer the centre, high ceilings, large windowsour nest, our home.
The first weeks in Manchester felt like a honeymoon. Breakfasts in bed, endless conversations about everything and nothing. Mark photographed me on the balcony, in the kitchen, in the bathroom with damp hair; each shot felt like a love declaration.
Then things shifted.
At first subtly. Mark began staying longer at shoots, coming home exhausted, eating dinner in silence, glued to his phone. Busy work, hed say. Gotta hustle while the orders last. I nodded, didnt want to be the nagging girlfriend.
When I tried to hold him at night, he pulled away. When I brought up the studio, the future, he answered with clipped Later, Well sort it out, Not now. Each not now scratched deeper inside me.
I started looking for work, more to fill my head than out of necessity. At thirtyfour, finding a job wasnt easy.
Money dwindled. The rent ate a large chunk each month. Marks income was irregular, and when I gently suggested splitting the bills, he shrugged, Im already putting in my share. Cant you see?
I saw him avoid eye contact, checking his phone, slipping out at night to get some fresh air and returning after midnight smelling of other womens perfume. Or perhaps it was all in my head.
We need to talk, I said one night when he finally stumbled home at threea.m.
About what?
Us. I dont understand whats happening. Youre a different person. I barely see you, we barely talk.
Youre suffocating me, he snapped, tossing his jacket onto the chair. I told you I need space. Everythings moving too fast. I never asked you to ruin your life.
He was right. Technically, it was my choice to leave Victor, sell the studio, move here. It was my decision that set everything ablaze.
From that night I became a wreck, scrolling through his phone while he slept, reading every message, dissecting every like on his photos, tracing every subscription to female models. Each name burnt me. I sent him twenty messages a day, asking where he was, who he was with, when hed return. I staged jealous scenes and then hated myself for becoming the woman I never wanted to be.
Youre sick, Mark finally said after another blowup. You need a therapist, not a relationship.
He was probably right again.
Mark stopped staying over more often. Shooting out of town, Staying with a mate, Dont wait for me. I sat in the dark, watching the door, feeling something inside dry up into ash.
One Tuesday evening, after my fifth cup of coffee, my phone buzzed.
Emma, I cant do this any longer. Im sorry. Its gone too far. I never wanted to wreck your life. Im not ready to take responsibility. Please dont look for me. Leave me alone.
I read it three times, then again. The phone slipped from my hand, and I collapsed onto the cold kitchen floor.
I spent the next day drifting between the sofa, the floor, back to the sofaeach spot colder than the last, the chill a small distraction from the storm inside. I wept, badly, with hiccups and snot, until the tears ran dry, leaving only a raw, burnt emptiness.
No husband. No business. No friends. No parents. No lover. No moneymy bank balance showed enough for barely two months. At thirtyfour, the only thing left was a rented flat with lofty ceilings I could no longer afford.
Three days later I forced myself to call Victornot to ask him back, just to apologise, to admit my fault. Subscriber unavailable. Hed blocked me.
I texted my mothera long, messy, honest confession about my mistake, my misery, my need for help. She replied after two hours: We warned you. Sort out the consequences yourself. Father says he isnt ready to talk.
I put the phone down and laughed, a thin, cracked sound. That was it. The full set.
A week later I moved into a twelvesquaremetre room in a shared house on the outskirts of the city. A plump, sixtyyearold neighbour gave me a judging look and muttered, Youre still young, youll get over it.
Work came quicklya nail technician in a cramped basement salon on the next street. The pay was pennies, but pride mattered more now.
In the evenings I stared at my handsonce they signed contracts, handled Italian cosmetic catalogs; now they spent the day filing other peoples nails for a few pence.
Months of madness passed, and everything Id built over a decade vanished. And I was the one who did it.
Lesson:When you let fear dictate your choices, you may trade one cage for another, only to discover that true freedom comes from owning the consequences, not escaping them.
