**Diary Entry**
It began like any other Saturday morning.
“You won’t be late, will you? What time are you leaving, James? James…” Emma tugged at her husband’s shoulder, but he just waved her off, making it clear he wasn’t ready to wake up yet and wouldn’t miss his train. Emma glanced at her phone—only seven.
*Why did I even get up this early on a weekend? His bag’s already packed…* She nearly crawled back under the warm duvet when that feeling crept in again—the unease she’d been wrestling with lately.
There was no reason for it. James was here, their flat was lovely, nestled in the heart of London, tastefully decorated, all the latest appliances. He had his car; she had hers. They’d even bought a cosy cottage in the Cotswolds for weekends. Everything was perfect.
Most people would kill for a life like this. Try renting some cramped flat, commuting on the Tube, juggling kids’ homework, dinners, mortgage payments. Just as you collapse into bed, the alarm’s already ringing. *My problems? Please—what problems?*
But that feeling gnawed at her. No reason, just a heavy, sinking dread—like something important was slipping away. It came without warning, then vanished just as suddenly.
Emma got up, watching James sleep a moment longer before heading to the kitchen. Another business trip. Lately, they’d become constant. A year and a half ago, his new boss had taken over, bumped his salary, and now James was a department head at a thriving firm. But the weekends? He was always gone.
Breakfast ready, she went back to wake him.
“James, are you getting up or not? You’ll miss your train!”
“Yeah, after lunch…” he muttered, finally sitting up.
“Come on, I made breakfast.”
“Mm-hmm.”
At the table, his face was glued to his phone. Lately, they barely spoke. Not that they fought—he still brought flowers, agreed to dinners out when she suggested it. They’d stroll through Hyde Park, meet friends, catch a film. But it wasn’t the same.
“James, take me with you?”
“Mm-hmm.” Eyes still on the screen.
“I mean it. You’re staying in a hotel, right? You’ll be out during the day, but evenings—”
“What? No! Why would you even—?” He finally looked up.
“It’s just… I’ve never been to Manchester. I could explore, visit shops, museums…”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a dull place—nothing special! We’ve got shops here.”
“It’s boring here! I won’t get in your way.”
“Christ, Em, if you want a holiday, book one!” he snapped.
“Alone? We’re married, in case you forgot!”
“Here we go again. Work’s insane right now—you know that! The boss is relentless!”
“Funny, I saw Robson last week at Westfield with his family. But *you* were working.” She hadn’t meant to pick a fight, but the words tumbled out.
“Right, let’s drag up everyone’s schedules. Thanks for breakfast.” He stormed off to the shower.
She scrubbed the kitchen clean, packed sandwiches and tea for his trip.
“Emma, where’s my bag?” His voice carried from the hall.
“On the dresser.”
“I’m off. Don’t sulk—there’s nothing to do there.”
“Fine. Wasn’t sulking. Bye.”
And he was gone.
A Saturday stretched ahead. She could call a friend—maybe dinner at a little bistro, some gossip. But who?
Sarah was knee-deep in nappies and school runs. Claire and her husband had bought a place in the Lake District—no chance she’d come back for a night out. And Jess? Off chasing dreams in New York. Everyone had their own lives.
Thirty-eight, and no children. A mistake from years ago. They’d just moved in together back then, scraping by in a rented flat. When she told James, he said *not now*. She’d hated it but didn’t argue—how could they raise a child like that? Now? They could’ve given a child everything.
Fourteen years old, their kid would’ve been.
“What would they have been like?” she whispered, tears spilling.
Washing her face in the bathroom mirror, she straightened.
“Enough. This ends now.”
She called Vicky.
“Hey, Vicks! Fancy a coffee or some shopping?”
“Oh… Em. Hi. Can’t, I’m a bit under the weather.”
“Really? Flu?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
So Emma went alone. The shops felt hollow. Then—inspiration. She’d surprise Vicky! A care package: pastries, groceries, medicine. A taxi ride later, she stood at Vicky’s door, buzzing with excitement.
The door swung open.
James stood there.
For a second, neither spoke.
“James? What are you—?” Her voice cracked.
Vicky’s voice called from inside. “Who is it?”
Then Vicky appeared. Silence.
“Delivery,” Emma managed, thrusting the bags at James. “Get well soon.”
She turned, heart hammering, hailed another taxi. Moments later, James followed.
“Let’s go home. We need to talk.” He headed for his car.
“Why? Go back upstairs—they’re waiting.” Tears burned. “How long’s this ‘business trip’ been going on?”
The taxi arrived.
“Don’t bother coming back to *our* flat.”
She told the driver to stop by the Thames. A walk might clear her head.
*This was it.* The thing she’d sensed but ignored.
“Oi, sorry!” A man bumped her shoulder.
“Tom?”
“Emma? Bloody hell!”
Tom. Childhood friends, primary school through sixth form. Then he joined the Army. They’d written for a while until she met James. Last she’d heard, Tom had married, settled near his base.
“Years since I’ve seen you!”
“Decades! Is this your daughter?” A girl, maybe nine, stood beside him.
“Yep—this is Lizzie. Say hello, love.”
“Hi,” the girl murmured.
“I’m Auntie Emma.”
“Fancy a cuppa? There’s a café just there.”
They talked for hours. His wife had passed; he’d moved back to London.
“And you? Married? Kids?”
“Not anymore. No kids.” She forced a smile.
“But you *were* married?”
“Yeah. Didn’t work out.”
That evening, James came for his things.
“I should’ve told you about Vicky.”
“And why didn’t you?”
“Dunno.” He left.
The divorce was quick—no kids, no fights over property. He took the cottage; she kept the flat.
Six months healed some wounds. Then Tom called.
“Em, Mum’s poorly—can you fetch Lizzie from school?”
“Of course!”
They’d grown close, Lizzie and her. That afternoon, the doorbell rang during maths homework.
“Dad’s here! Keep working.”
It wasn’t Tom.
James stood there, hollow-eyed.
“What do you want?”
“Em… I can’t do this without you. Let’s try again. Vicky and I—it was nothing. We’re divorced now.”
“No.”
“Who’s that?” He frowned at Lizzie, now in the doorway.
“None of your business.”
Then Tom arrived, flowers in hand.
“Dad!” Lizzie bounded over.
James stared, muttered something, and left.
“These are for you,” Tom said, handing Emma the bouquet.
“Auntie Emma helped with my sums! And she cooks like Mum used to,” Lizzie chirped.
A year later, Emma and Tom married. James? Last she heard, he and Vicky split. He’s in the cottage now—just him and his work. And those *business trips*.
Lizzie calls her *Mum* now. They’re a family—happy, whole. Funny how life turns out.
**Lesson Learned**: Sometimes the thing you dread the most is the very thing that sets you free.
