**Diary Entry – 12th May**
For months, I’d felt the cracks in our marriage. The love had faded, replaced by routine and resentment. The air was thick with tension, like the calm before a storm.
I told myself things would improve—that digging deeper would only reveal wounds too raw to heal. But what then? We had a daughter to think about.
I kept the house clean, made sure meals were ready, and nagged Emily about her homework. She’d started keeping secrets lately—teenage stuff. Normal. But Richard? His contribution began and ended with his paycheck.
Lately, he was glued to his phone like a schoolboy.
Then I fell ill—fever, pounding headache, body aching. I asked him to cook dinner. Emily was out with friends again.
“Come on, tea and toast will do,” he muttered.
Too weak to argue, I drifted in and out of sleep. Two days later, I stumbled into the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dishes; takeaway boxes littered the bin. His shirts filled the washing machine, sand crunched underfoot, and the fridge was empty. I scrubbed, cooked, collapsed by evening—only to find another mountain of plates after dinner.
Enough.
“I’m not your maid. I work too, then come home to this. Can’t you even wash a cup?”
“You’d do it anyway,” he said, eyes on his screen.
“Take the bins out tomorrow. I’ll leave a bag by the door.”
“Fine.”
“Not ‘fine’—just *do it*.” My voice cracked. “You used to help. I’m not asking for the moon—just basic decency. Look at me!”
He sighed. “What’s your problem? You’re the woman—it’s your job. I pay the bills. What more do you want?”
“You called our daughter ‘the woman’?”
“Where is she, anyway? *Your* parenting—letting her roam about. Over a bloody plate.”
“It’s not about the plate. It’s about you not caring—”
“Christ! Enough.” He stormed out.
His forgotten phone lit up. A name flashed—*Lottie*. Then darkness.
The crack I’d ignored yawned wide.
He returned, snatching the phone. “Lottie… Charlotte? Who is she?” I kept my voice flat.
His face hardened. “You went through my phone?”
“Passcode-locked. Something to hide?” *Lie to me. Just once.*
“And if there is?” He met my gaze. “Yes, I’m seeing someone. Let’s end this civilly.”
“How civilly?” My voice broke.
“Here we go.” He rolled his eyes. “Play the victim if you want. Stay if it suits you.”
The world tilted.
“Pack your things,” he said.
“What?”
“The flat’s mine. My parents gave it to me. I’m not selling.”
“And Emily and I? You’re joking.”
“No. Go to your mum’s.”
“I’m staying with Dad,” Emily said from the doorway.
Richard smirked. “Bad parent, am I?”
“You can’t stay with him,” I whispered. “He’s—”
“He’s got Lottie. So what? I’ve got my room here. I’m not moving to Nan’s—it’s miles from school.” She vanished.
I drowned in panic. Family, home—gone. A whirlwind spat me out, breathless.
Even my daughter chose him. I hid in the loo, wept silently. That night, a pillow and blanket waited on the sofa. Richard didn’t speak.
I left at dawn while they slept. At work, my colleague frowned.
“I’ve got no family, no home,” I choked.
“Bloody hell. Stay at my dad’s old place—tiny, needs work. Just cover utilities.”
It was grim. Soviet-era furniture, dust thick as snow. But I scrubbed until my hands bled. Emily wouldn’t have lasted a night here.
No one called.
I moved out properly while Richard worked. My colleague’s husband helped. That night, I drank wine, mourning the life I’d lost.
Emily took Lottie’s gifts—makeup, jeans. “She’s cool,” she’d say.
I waited outside her school once. She scowled. “Don’t come again.”
I took a second job—stocking shelves at B&Q, mopping floors. Saved every penny. A year later, I bought a one-bed flat on mortgage. If Emily ever came back, we’d manage.
Vladimir, a coworker, helped assemble furniture. Over borscht, he admitted his ex left him for money. “Your husband kept Emily to avoid looking cruel. She’ll realize—no stepmum loves like a mother.”
He moved in. Proposed. I refused—still waiting for Emily.
Then, one evening—
“Mum!” Emily stood at the door, grown-up. “Nice flat.”
Over tea, she admitted failing A-levels. “Dad won’t pay for uni. Lottie says they need the cash for holidays.”
“I’ve none left after the mortgage,” I said weakly.
Vladimir offered her a job. “Save for next year.”
Her face soured. “I don’t want to waste a year!”
That night, she slept on an airbed in the kitchen. By morning, she’d vanished.
“Don’t call me,” she’d texted.
Vladimir held me as I wept. “She came for money, not you.”
Six months later, she rang—pregnant, married to a club-goer. Lottie refused to help. “I’ve got my freedom now,” she’d sneered.
Vladimir brokered a deal—her in-laws bought her a flat to free their son. Now, I babysit my granddaughter nightly.
And I’m happy.
**Lesson:** Some storms leave you stranded. Others wash you ashore—bruised, but breathing. Love isn’t always returned, but it’s always worth giving.
