**Diary Entry**
Sarah arrived at her old friend Emma’s birthday party. They’d been close since university, and everything was perfect—just as it should be. The spacious London flat had four large rooms, and the dining table groaned under the weight of the feast. Melted cheddar oozed golden over crackers, alongside thick-cut honey-roast ham with delicate marbling. There was roast beef, freshly carved, garlic-roasted vegetables, and crisp pickles. The spread could’ve been lifted from a classic British still-life painting.
The guests—family and colleagues—were warm, raising glasses with heartfelt toasts. Soft music played in the background, mingling with laughter. The drawing room held fine porcelain figurines, the windows draped in elegant curtains, and a plush floral rug muffled footsteps underfoot. Everyone ate with relish.
Emma’s husband presented her with a delicate diamond ring—after all, fifty was a milestone. Their children toasted her lovingly, and their little grandson planted a kiss on her cheek. There was room for everyone, joy in every corner. Later, they even danced. One room had been cleared for it, and guests swayed to nostalgic tunes from their youth. A handsome colleague of Emma’s husband asked Sarah to dance.
She laughed, cheeks flushed, hair coming loose—dancing as if she were twenty again. He smiled, paid her compliments—nothing forward, just kind words. For a moment, she forgot.
Then she checked her watch. Reality crashed back. She had to go. No, *run*. Her mother-in-law needed her evening medicine, washing, help with dinner. Her husband couldn’t manage alone. Money was tight—his publishing job had vanished when the firm folded. He’d taken temporary work, barely covering bills. Their son’s failed business meant loan repayments, and their daughter-in-law had been hospitalised for weeks with the baby.
Sarah bundled into her coat. Emma hugged her goodbye, sensing the haste but not pressing. Life called.
Outside, icy rain needled her face. For a heartbeat, she nearly turned back—back to warmth, to fine food and music, where conversations weren’t about debts or prescriptions but films and old jokes. Where she could’ve lingered in that slow dance with a man who made her feel seen.
But she boarded the bus.
Home was a cramped flat that smelled of antiseptic and burnt porridge—no matter how she scrubbed. Her husband looked older under the dim bulb he hadn’t yet replaced. He rattled off the doctor’s updates, prescriptions, the specialist they needed. The flat loomed smaller, dingier, cluttered with pill bottles and nappies.
The contrast to Emma’s bright, laughter-filled rooms choked her.
Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat. Smiled. Kissed her husband’s tired face. *”Ta for letting me go. It was lovely.”* She rolled up her sleeves. *”Run Mum a bath—did you feed her? Take your pills?”*
This was life. Not the feast, the music, the fleeting warmth—but the duty of it. The cleaning, the grinding work, the love that tethered her here even when the other world glittered.
She worked until her hands shook. Later, Emma texted: *”Fancy giving your number to that chap from earlier?”* Sarah sent a laughing emoji and a firm *No.* She thanked her for the evening. The respite. The friendship.
Emma understood.
Life tempts us, dangles easier paths. But we walk back to our own. Love won’t let us stray—not for long. We fight for them, even when we’re bone-tired.
And sometimes, changing a lightbulb is enough to push back the dark.
**Lesson:** Duty is heavy, but love is the counterweight. The quiet victories—a night’s peace, a moment’s grace—carry us through.
