**Diary Entry – 12th October**
Last night after ballet, my five-year-old daughter, Emily, announced she was getting a new mum—her dance instructor. I kept my composure, but her words didn’t sound like a joke. The more she spoke, the clearer it became—something was happening behind my back. Something I’d never dared to imagine.
I gave up my dream for her. Ever since I was a girl, I’d longed to be a professional ballroom dancer—the music, the elegance, the sparkle of sequins under the lights. Dancing made me feel alive, as if I could fly. For a while, it seemed possible. I competed locally, practised relentlessly. Even after marrying James, I kept dancing, clinging to that dream.
We hadn’t planned for a child so soon, but life had other ideas. The moment I found out I was pregnant, everything changed. Priorities shifted. I told myself I’d only pause dancing for a while. But once Sophie was born, reality set in—time, energy, opportunities—all gone. I was a mother now.
Yet, I never regretted it. Sophie was everything. Her tiny hands, her bright eyes, the way she whispered *“Mummy”*—she filled my heart in ways dancing never could. I loved her more than I thought possible.
But a dream buried doesn’t die. Secretly, I hoped Sophie might love dancing too. So when she asked for lessons after James showed her videos of my performances, I nearly cried. I enrolled her that same day.
Yet, soon after, James grew distant—late nights, silence over dinner. One evening, I couldn’t hold it in. “Do you hate Sophie dancing?” I asked across the kitchen table.
He looked startled. “No. Why would you think that?”
“You’ve been different. Late. Quiet. Like you’re miles away.”
He sighed. “Lucy, it’s nothing.”
“It is,” I pressed. “You don’t talk about work anymore. You avoid looking at me.”
He leaned back. “Just busy, that’s all.”
“You never danced with me,” I said. “Not at our wedding. Not even at parties. I let it go. But maybe now it’s bothering you. Maybe you don’t want Sophie to dance either.”
He shook his head. “That’s not true. I love seeing her happy after class.”
“Then what’s wrong?” I begged.
A pause. “Nothing. You’re overthinking. Work will ease up soon.”
He hugged me, stroked my hair like he used to. I closed my eyes. But something still felt… off.
After that, things improved. James came home earlier, chatted about his day—lunch, office banter, traffic. I relaxed. Maybe I’d imagined it.
Then, one afternoon, I borrowed his phone to check a recipe (mine had died). Recent transactions flashed up—odd payments, no details. Just amounts and codes. My stomach lurched. James always told me what he bought. Always.
Our anniversary was near. Maybe a surprise? A trip? A gift? I clung to that hope.
The next morning, after he left, I searched for clues. I shouldn’t have. But I did. His office—nothing. Our wardrobe—neat, except one shirt crumpled in the corner. I lifted it. Glitter. Pink, sticky stage glitter. The kind dancers wear.
I don’t own anything like that.
Hands trembling, I texted him: *We need to talk the second you’re home.*
I left the shirt on the bed, numb, then drove to fetch Sophie from school. She chattered about her day—drawings of rainbows, arguments over crayons. I nodded mechanically, my mind racing.
“Do I have ballet today?” she asked.
I hesitated. “I’m not sure Dad can take you.”
Her face fell. “But I *want* to go!”
I couldn’t say no. I texted James: *Forget it. Talk later.*
When he arrived, I handed him Sophie’s dance bag without a word. He left silently.
Alone, I paced. Our wedding photo mocked me from the mantel. The doorbell rang—Sophie was back early, dropped off by another mum, Hannah.
“James said he had errands,” Hannah explained.
I thanked her, then called James. No answer. Three tries. Nothing.
“Who are you calling?” Sophie asked.
“Your dad.”
“Why? Coach Eleanor’s going to be my new mum now.”
I froze. “What?”
“Dad hugs her a lot. But I still want you too.”
My chest tightened. He’d done this in front of *her*?
“Pack your toys, love. We’re visiting Gran.”
She nodded. “Don’t tell Dad I said. It’s a secret.”
At my parents’, I left Sophie, then drove straight to the studio.
They were there—James and Eleanor, standing too close.
“Why is our daughter saying her *coach* will be her new mum?!” I shouted.
Eleanor paled. “What?”
James stepped forward. “She misunderstood. I’ve been taking lessons—for *you*. To surprise you for our anniversary.”
My anger crumbled. “What?”
“I know how much dance means to you. I wanted to learn… for you.”
I covered my face. “God, I’m such a fool.”
Eleanor sighed. “I think Sophie needs a different teacher.”
James led me outside. “You need to trust me,” he murmured, holding me as I sobbed.
I’d been wrong. So terribly wrong. But as he held me, I wondered—would I ever stop doubting?
