Diary Entry
When Emma looked over the divorce paperwork, her expression was eerily calm. There wasnt even a hint of anger.
So youve finally made up your mind then? I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation. So what happens now? How are we going to split things?
She lifted her gaze to me. Her eyes held no tears or pleadingjust a quiet resolve carved out after a night spent ruminating over a wasted life.
Take everything, she said, her voice steady, though barely above a whisper.
I frowned. What do you mean by everything?
The house, the car, the cottage, the savings, all the accounts She gestured vaguely around the solicitors office. I dont want any of it.
Is this a joke? For a moment, I actually laughed. Some sort of trick?
No, Alan. No jokes and no tricks. Ive spent thirty years putting my own life on hold. Thirty years spent washing, cooking, cleaning, waiting. Thirty years being told holidays were just a waste of money, my interests were silly, my dreams nonsense. Do you know how many times I wanted to go to the seaside? Nineteen. Do you know how many times we went? Three. And you grumbled every time about the cost and inconvenience.
I shrugged. Here we go again. We always had a roof over our heads, food on the table
Yes, we did, Emma nodded. And now youll have all the rest as well. Congratulations on your win.
Our solicitor looked at Emma as if hed just seen a unicorn. Hed grown used to sobbing, yelling, accusationsnever a woman simply relinquishing all claim to the assets most couples fight tooth and nail over.
Are you sure you understand what youre saying? he asked quietly. By law, youre entitled to half.
I understand, Emma replied, her smile oddly radiant, as if shed shrugged off a heavy coat. But half a wasted life is still a wasted life.
I could hardly contain my relief, though Id fully expected a long battle or messy negotiations at the very least. Instead, here it wasmy good fortune delivered on a plate.
Well, thats finally a level-headed decision! I clapped my hands on the table. Youre finally being sensible.
Dont mistake release for reason, she murmured, then signed the papers without a tremor.
We drove home in the same car, yet as if on separate continents.
I hummed to myselfsome old tune from childhoodas the car jostled along potholed lanes, my mood buoyed by the thought of finally being in charge. Emma didnt seem to hear me at all, staring intently through the foggy glass as cheery pines and beeches whipped past, her fingers pressed to her cool cheek in a gesture that seemed oddly peaceful.
It was strangejust a normal road, an ordinary evening, but suddenly a sense of vastness filled the space inside her, and a weight that had pressed her down for years simply evaporated. I glanced at her and, for the first time in a very long time, saw a shadow of a smile.
Sometimes all it takes is one momenta brief glimpse of trees flashing past the windowfor life to start shimmering with long-forgotten colour.
Three weeks later, Emma was living in a small room in Epsom.
The rented flat was modest: bed, wardrobe, a little table, a telly perched in the corner. Two pots of violets sat on the windowsillher first deliberate purchase for her new life.
Youre honestly off your rocker, our son Oliver said over the phone, barely disguising his disgust. You left everything and legged it to that dump?
I didnt leave, sweetheart, Emma said, her voice unruffled. I let go. Theres a difference.
But Mum, Dad says you handed everything over voluntarily. Hes selling the cottagesaid its more trouble than its worth now.
She smiled at her reflection, seeing her new haircut for the first time in yearsa choppy, fun style shed never have dared suggest to Alan. Too young for your age, not proper, what would people thinkhis favourite refrains echoed in her head.
Let him sell it, she said lightly. Your dads always been skilled at looking after the practical side.
But what about you? Youve got nothing left!
Ive got the most important thing, Oliver. My life. And you know whats funny? Turns out at fifty-nine, you can start it all over again.
Emma found herself a job as an administrator at a small, private retirement home. The work was tough, sometimes exhausting, but interestingand best of all, for the first time ever, her free time belonged to her.
Meanwhile, I basked in my traditional English win.
First two weeks, I stalked the flat feeling like a king in my castle, eyeing the place with swelling pride. No one grumbled about socks left on the bathroom floor, or plates left unwashed, or whatnot.
My word, Alan, youve hit the jackpot, my mate Pete smirked, whisky in hand. Most blokes lose half, some everything, but youhouse, cottage, car, all to yourself.
Too right, I chuckled. Emma finally showed some sense. Shell fall to pieces without me.
Exceptafter a month, the novelty wore off.
Strangely, clean shirts stopped appearing in the wardrobe. The fridge echoed emptily. Making a proper meal was not as straightforward as a microwave dinner, and even my colleagues noted my scruffy turn of dress.
Youre looking a bit rough round the edges, Alan, my boss remarked. Everything all right?
Never better, I said, as breezily as I could manage. Just reorganising the routine.
One night I opened the fridge to find nothing but a bottle of ketchup, a packet of cheese slices, and a half-open bottle of lager. My stomach grumbledId barely had a ham sandwich all day.
Bloody hell, I cursed, slamming the fridge. This cant go on.
I ordered a takeawaywhat choice was there? The kitchen looked like the English countryside in February: nothing but a forlorn cluster of limp carrots. Waiting for the delivery man, I sorted through billsand thats when the cold digits hit me hard: the rates, water, mobile, internet, electric.
It had all seemed like background static before. With someone else around, you dont notice the endless grind, you just live.
The doorbell snapped me out of it. The delivery chap handed over my meal and the card reader.
Thatll be nine pounds eighty, he said evenly.
How much? I nearly dropped my wallet. For stew and a bottle of water?
Thats the standard now, mate. He didnt blink.
I paid without another word. Back in the kitchen, the silence was so deep the fridge buzzed anxiously, as if it, too, was lonely. The flatbig, spruced up, with every comfortsuddenly felt just like an empty waiting room. Cold. Hollow. A place where the wind could howl through, just as it did in my soul.
Emma, meanwhile, was standing on the pebbled shore at Brighton, her face turned to the sunshine and salt breeze.
All around was the cheerful bustle of a group tripan active retirees club, off to the seaside for the week. For the first time in her life, she was travelling without a single complaint about money wasted, without anyone fussing about costs or muttering that it was all pointless staying anywhere but home.
Emma, come take a picture! called her new friend Margaret, a lively widow shed met at an arts club.
Emma hurried over, laughing alongside her new crowd. Who would have thought: at this age, shed be wearing a bright dress, her hair loose, laughing like a teenager?
Now a selfie! Margaret proclaimed, pulling out a selfie stick. This is going straight in the WhatsApp group!
That night, in her B&B room, Emma scrolled through the photos. The woman in them had shining eyes and a bright smilea woman Emma barely recognised. When had that frown line disappeared? When had her shoulders dropped their weary hunch?
I should post these, she said to herself, finally hitting share on her old Facebook profile.
Meanwhile, I was in London wrestling with a burst kitchen pipe. Water everywhere, the sideboard ruined, the plumber cheerfully informing me that the whole lot was obsolete.
For heavens sake! I muttered, mopping the floor in a rage. Wheres the damned number for the emergency bloke? Emma always knew who to call.
It hit me thenshed carried in her head dozens of contacts: plumbers, good butchers, proper cobblers, honest electricians. This invisible support skeleton was gone, leaving me to face every mundane crisis alone.
Blasted pipe! I snarled, flinging down the sodden towel. Have to do the washing and make dinner and everything else myself
Later, once the flood was finally under control, I realised I hadnt checked social media in ages. Out of bored curiosity, I scrolled through and stopped dead at Emma’s face, beaming on a seaside backdrop. She was in some colourful summer dress and her haircut was well, she looked radiant.
Unbelievable, I muttered, zooming in. She left with nothing!
Comment after comment caught me off-guard:
Emma, you look younger every day!
Beautiful photo, love!
Glad to see you so happy!
I clicked deeper, finding snapshots of her at a book club, painting in the park, holding a bunch of wildflowers on a sunny bench.
What on earth I put my phone down, staring at my empty, dish-cluttered kitchen. She was supposed to be well
She was supposed to be miserable, I thought, staring at the tiles. But all I saw online was a woman transformed, as if losing the weight of years.
A few days later, the roof at the cottage started leaking and the forecast threatened a thunderstorm. I was desperate enough to ring Pete for help.
Please, mate, can you bring some nails at least? I cant do this alone.
Sorry, Alan, Pete replied, The mother-in-laws in hospital, Im with her. Why not ask Emma? She always sorted you out.
Shes shes moved out, I stumbled. Ill sort it.
Sorting it was harder than Id thought. The rain hammered down as I wrestled with a tarpaulin, slipped, and landed awkwardly on my ankle.
Severe sprain, you got off lightly, the young A&E doctor said. Couldve done much worse. Week off your feet, keep it raised.
A week? I grumbled. And whos meant to fix the roof?
Thats your problem, the doctor shrugged, scribbling out a prescription. Maybe get your wife to helpand dont do anything silly.
I bit back a reply.
Three days alone on crutches, barely able to move around the flat. The food deliveries had run dry and cost far too much anyway. Trying to cook when you cant stand on both feet is nearly impossible.
On the fourth day, I gave in and called Oliver.
Hi, Dad, he answered, wary.
Oh, nothing, justhad a bit of an accident, twisted my ankle. Any chance you could help the old man out?
A pause.
Sorry, Dad, Im up in Newcastle for work. I could come by in a few days.
Dont worry, I said, swallowing my disappointment. Ill manage.
He hesitated. Why not call Mum? Shed help
No! I snapped. No need. Im fine.
I hung up and lobbed the phone on the sofa. Pride, that dumb English pride, wouldnt let me admit that I missed herher caring, her steady presence, the way a home is more than just whats in it.
After a week and a half, I could walk again. First thing I did was limp up to the cottage to assess the thunderstorms damage. It was diredamp stains, ruined sofa, the air thick with mildew.
I slumped on the garden bench. The apple trees Emma had always tended looked wild and abandoned, the flagstone paths choked by overgrown grass. Everything seemed bereft of her careful touch.
Driving back, I stopped at a roadside café, too tired to think. I ordered stew and a cuppa, but one spoonful made me chokethe stew was nothing like Emma’s, sour and bland.
You alright there, love? the waitress asked.
Yes, just never mind, I mumbled, unable to explain how the taste conjured up everything Id lost.
Back home, I sat for ages in the silent sitting room, staring at old photos. There we were, young on a daytrip to London; the three of us in our little garden back then; our 20th anniversary.
What a fool Ive been, I whispered, staring at her gentle, smiling face.
With trembling hands, I texted her, expectingIm not sure what. But the reply was not the one I wanted.
Emma had moved to a seaside town. New friends laughed around her. Music played. At nearly sixty, her life truly belonged to her, at last.
If anything, Ive learnt that possessions mean little without the person who gave them meaning. Freedom, it turns out, is so much heavier when it leaves you behind.
