**Diary Entry – A Lesson in Time**
The music stopped, and the hall fell silent. Emily could hear nothing but her own breath. Then, a single clap broke the stillness, followed by thunderous applause that nearly deafened her. The audience rose to their feet, many with tears in their eyes.
Emily glanced at Anthony. He leaned down and kissed her. His lips tasted faintly of her tears. As the clapping faded and the crowd trickled out, he adjusted her wheelchair and pushed her toward the exit.
“Tired?” he asked.
“No. I’m happy. Thank you,” she laughed through her tears.
***
Earlier that evening, Emily had been chopping vegetables for dinner, glancing at the clock. Daniel would be home soon. She filled the kettle and set it on the hob, her hands moving quickly. Another glance at the clock. *Late again. Should I call? No. He’ll say I’m imagining things—that I’m paranoid. I want to believe him. But I can’t. Not anymore.* Her fingers itched to grab her phone. *Could he really be with her again?*
Her grip on the knife tightened until her knuckles turned white. Then she let go, and the blade clattered against the counter. The clock’s hands crawled, testing her patience. Finally, she dialled Daniel’s number. *Pick up. Just tell me you’re on your way.* But the ringing only mocked her, pounding in her ears like a drumbeat.
She tossed the phone. It skidded across the counter, teetering near the edge. *Calm down. He’ll be home any minute.*
Daniel didn’t return until past midnight. Exhausted from crying, Emily had dozed off, but the scrape of his key in the lock jolted her awake. A sliver of light cut under the bedroom door. She flung it open.
Daniel flinched, startled mid-step as he kicked off his shoes. Then he forced a laugh. “Scared me. Why aren’t you asleep?”
“I wanted to look you in the eye. You promised you’d stop seeing her.”
“Not this again. Just lads at the pub for the match.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, each word deliberate. “I can’t wait by the door, listening for footsteps. I’m done.” She hugged her stomach, hunched over as if the weight of it all kept her from standing straight.
Tears spilled as she curled onto the bed.
“Em, your jealousy’s getting old,” Daniel sighed, making no move to comfort her. “Just lost track of time.”
“Why didn’t you call? Battery ‘died’ again?” Her voice cracked. She shot up, stormed past him to the hallway, and yanked his coat off the hook.
He lunged too late. Emily held up his phone, the screen glowing.
“Sweetheart, you home yet? Wife giving you the third degree, or saving the drama for morning?” she read aloud in a sickly-sweet voice.
Daniel grabbed for it, but she let him take it. Pushing past him, she started pulling on her coat.
“Tell her you’re free. I’m leaving. Be gone by morning.”
Daniel caught her wrist. “Wait—fine. I wasn’t at the pub.”
Emily’s face twisted in disgust. “What more do you want from me?” she whispered, doubling over again.
She grabbed her purse and left. Daniel didn’t follow.
Outside, she called a cab, then her mother.
“Fighting again? I warned you,” her mother scolded.
“Not now, Mum,” Emily cut her off.
But she never made it home. The cab sped through the sleeping city when a drunk driver’s SUV ploughed into them from the side.
Daniel visited daily once she was moved from intensive care, guilt gnawing at him. If he hadn’t stayed with Lucy that night, if Emily hadn’t taken that cab—
The doctors said she’d walk again in a few months. But a year passed, then another. Hope vanished. She’d never leave the wheelchair.
Daniel stayed at first. Her mother helped. But how long could a young man care for a disabled wife? Some men wouldn’t leave. He wanted to believe he was one of them. But between the guilt, the resentment in Emily’s eyes, and Lucy—young, healthy, waiting—he couldn’t bear it. One day, he walked out.
The darkest days followed. Emily wondered how to end it—pills or the balcony. But the door was narrow. Could she even drag herself over the railing? Pills, then. But her mother hid the medicine, never leaving her alone.
Then, one day in the park, her mother struggled to free the wheelchair from a pothole. A sharp jolt sent it tipping—until a stranger steadied it.
“Thank God you were here,” her mother gasped.
Anthony—his name, she learned—helped them home. Over tea, he shared his own story: wounded in combat, declared dead by mistake. His mother’s heart gave out. His wife remarried. One night, he’d stood on a rooftop ledge…
“But something pushed me back. Maybe I just chickened out.”
Emily listened, realising her pain wasn’t unique.
Soon, Anthony visited often, taking her on walks. Once, she admitted, “I always wanted to dance. Kept putting it off. Now it’s too late.”
Two weeks later, he wheeled her onto a ballroom stage. A dancer spun her in her chair to applause and standing ovations.
We tell ourselves tragedies happen to others—never us. That there’s always time to fix mistakes, chase dreams. But fate doesn’t wait. It shatters plans in an instant. Yet sometimes, in the wreckage, it brings someone who helps you dance anyway.
