*Diary Entry – 12th May*
“First, she got old—now she’s ill as well! That’s it, I’m filing for divorce!” my husband snapped, slamming the door behind him. He had no idea just how wrong he’d been…
Charlotte sat at the kitchen table, gripping her phone. The voice on the other end delivered such unexpected news that, for a moment, the world seemed to vanish. Her thoughts raced uncontrollably, but not one formed a clear plan. What was she to do? The question pounded inside her, yet no answer came. Sharing her troubles wasn’t an option—she’d long since learned people rarely celebrate others’ joy, let alone offer genuine sympathy in hardship. Words are easy; what lies in someone’s heart is another matter.
Once, she could have confided in her parents. They’d been her anchor. But now they were gone, and she missed them more than ever. Her husband? There was a time she trusted him completely, but lately, he’d grown distant—always making snide remarks about age, hinting autumn had come too soon for her. One day quoting an article about women ageing faster; the next, griping that she’d let herself go.
Yet Charlotte didn’t see how she’d changed. She still visited the hairdresser, did her nails herself after a botched salon job, chose stylish clothes. Years had left their mark, certainly, but he wasn’t getting any younger either. Other couples their age still strolled hand in hand, laughed, made plans. Meanwhile, she often ate alone—his late nights at work were excuses she saw through all too well.
Bothering the children wasn’t fair. Emily had just married and was expecting; James was at university in another city. No, she wouldn’t burden them. But one thing was certain: she needed to confront her husband. Let him admit—once and for all—if any trace remained of the man she’d fallen for.
That evening, she met Edward at the door, her expression grave.
“Something wrong?” he asked, unnerved by her stare.
“Yes,” she took a steadying breath. “I’ve had some… troubling news. If I needed you, would you stay?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “What sort of news?”
“That’s not the point. The point is—would you stand by me?”
Edward sighed, rubbed his face, and sank into his armchair.
“Look, Lottie… you’ve brought this on yourself. I’ve been meaning to say—I’m leaving. You aged too fast, and now this? I’m sorry, but I won’t be nursemaid. Life’s too short. There’s… someone else. You’ll manage. You always do.”
He hurried to pack a bag and paused at the door. “I’ll collect the rest later. Take care.”
The slam of the door left her in silence. She didn’t cry. Just smiled wearily: *Point proven.*
Days later, Charlotte sat by the window, adrift in thought. Her phone rang—James’ name flashed up.
“Mum, you home?” he chimed.
“Of course. When do you visit?”
“That’s the surprise! They’ve assigned my placement here! Can you believe it?”
She laughed—the first lightness in her heart for months.
A week later, James arrived. That evening, she steeled herself.
“Jim… something’s come up. A solicitor called. Turns out, I wasn’t my parents’ biological child. My birth mother abandoned me as a baby, ran off abroad with some wealthy man. Recently widowed, she hired investigators to find me—but died in a crash before we met. Now… there’s an inheritance.”
James whistled. “Blimey! And you’re hesitating?”
“How do I accept money from a woman who threw me away?”
“If you don’t, it goes to strangers. This could change everything.”
She sighed. “I don’t even have a passport, let alone know the language—”
“We’ll sort it,” he cut in firmly.
Soon, Charlotte stood on foreign soil, guided by William, the poised solicitor handling her case. Over days of paperwork, he confessed, “I nearly refused this job. But something told me meeting you mattered.”
By the time the estate was settled, she’d realised—she was happy. Truly happy.
Returning home, she divided the funds fairly: a flat for James, a trust for Emily, the rest wisely saved. She never dwelled on Edward… until he reappeared one evening, unshaven and reeking of whisky.
“Char… take me back,” he slurred.
“Leave.”
“Who’d want you now?” he sneered—just as William stepped from the lift, roses in hand. Edward paled.
Two years on, Charlotte is a grandmother. William proposed, and she said yes. Yet when the hospital called—Edward had suffered a stroke, begging to see her—she went, despite James’ protests.
“Mum, I wouldn’t bother.”
“Kindness costs nothing, love.”
In that sterile room, a frail Edward whispered, “Forgive me.”
She shook her head. “I’ll arrange a carer. But don’t ask for more.”
That night, in the garden, William squeezed her hand. “Regrets?”
“None. Without him, I’d never have known real happiness.”
She met his gaze—and smiled.
*Lesson learnt: Some exits are blessings in disguise.*
