**Diary Entry**
I’ll tell you a story my old neighbour in the care home shared with me. Stuck here by my own family, I’ve got nothing but time to listen and pass these tales along. This one’s about Emma, her husband Richard, and how she took her life back. Listen close—it’s not a simple story.
Emma was scrolling through her tablet one evening, admiring a picture of turquoise seas and powdery white sand. “Richard, look at this place!” she said. “The reviews are brilliant—just imagine waking up to that…”
Richard barely glanced up from his phone. “Emma, I’ve made a decision,” he muttered.
She blinked. They’d only just started discussing holiday plans, budgeting, saving. Emma had skipped coffees out, scrimped every penny, dreaming of a seaside escape together. “What decision?” she asked, still smiling. “Found something better?”
“I’m going to the Maldives. Alone,” he said flatly, still staring at his screen.
The air left her lungs. A cold, slimy dread slithered down her spine. “Alone?” Her voice wavered. “But we agreed… I’ve been saving—”
Richard finally looked up—his eyes ice, no warmth. “Emma, don’t make a scene.” His lips twisted. “Look at yourself.”
She hunched like she’d been struck. She wasn’t fat—just soft, womanly. Gym three times a week, mindful meals, but never starving like the models he followed online. “What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, though she knew.
This wasn’t new—the digs about her stomach “not being flat enough,” her hips “too wide,” her joy “childish.” Richard smirked, relishing it. “I’m going alone,” he said. “You need to slim down, not lounge on beaches. I won’t be embarrassed by you.”
The words stung like slaps. Emma stared at this stranger, ten years of marriage crumbling under his cruelty. No tears—just hollow silence. All those savings, those dreams… “Right,” she said, voice detached.
Satisfied, Richard went back to his phone, thinking he’d won. Emma moved to the window, watching the bustle below—cars, people, life. And suddenly, she felt free. She checked her secret account—twice what Richard had saved for his trip. A quick text to her mates: “Who’s up for Zanzibar next week?” Replies flooded in like shooting stars.
For two days, Richard barely noticed her. He bragged to friends, packed swim shorts, drafted smug captions. Assumed she was at her mum’s, crying, soon to crawl back begging. He didn’t call. Meanwhile, Emma booked flights, packed bags. Richard, struggling with his own suitcase, scowled—shirts wrinkled, socks missing. He brushed off the thought of how neatly she’d always packed for him.
At the airport, he checked socials—and froze. There was Emma, radiant in a sundress, laughing with friends under palm trees. Geotag: Zanzibar. A joke? But no—there was Katie with a cocktail, Lucy pulling a face, Emma grinning like she hadn’t in years.
Rage boiled. How dare she? With whose money? Their joint account was untouched. She’d hidden savings? The betrayal burned worse than the tropical sun. “Traitor!” he hissed, drawing stares. He spent the flight messaging—first furious, then demanding answers. Silence.
Meanwhile, Emma breathed deep. Ocean breeze, fresh fruit, her friends’ laughter—she’d blocked Richard before takeoff. On day three, they convinced her to try diving. Nervous, she hesitated—until the instructor, James, tall with kind eyes, reassured her. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Underwater, the world vanished—just shimmering fish, weightless peace. Resurfacing, she was new. “You’ve got a brave smile,” James said. “You should wear it more.”
That evening, over drinks, he asked about her—not her weight, her life. Meanwhile, Richard hurled his phone—his card declined. The bank needed Emma’s authorisation. The ocean lost its lustre. He was trapped in his own making.
He flew home in economy, begging his dad for the ticket, enduring lectures. Planned to scream, demand apologies. But the flat was spotless, lemons scenting the air, his suitcase waiting. Emma walked in—sun-kissed, calm. “Oh, you’re back,” she said, as if he’d popped to the shops. “I’ve packed your things. Call a cab.”
“What the hell?” Richard choked. “You think you can—”
“I think I can live,” she said. “Divorce papers are filed online. Here’s my solicitor’s card.”
He didn’t take it. “This flat’s mine!”
“Of course,” Emma nodded. “I’ve got a new place. Friends helped. No drama—I’ve had a lovely holiday.”
She grabbed her bag. Richard grabbed her wrist. “Where are you going?”
“In Zanzibar, I met someone,” she said. “He taught me not to fear depths. In diving… and life. He sees me.”
Downstairs, James waited. “Goodbye, Richard,” Emma said. “You lose the weight if it bothers you.”
The door slammed. Richard stood among suitcases, glimpsing not the alpha he imagined, but a pathetic man who’d wrecked everything.
Two years later, a café smelled of cinnamon. Emma stirred cocoa, smiling as James held up tiny knitted booties. “Too bright?” he asked. “Maybe beige?”
“She won’t care, as long as they’re cosy,” Emma laughed.
James had sold his dive shop, moved for her. Their daughter kicked inside her. Emma didn’t weigh herself, didn’t scold over sweets. She lived.
Then Richard walked in—gaunt, greying. “Emma?” He forced a smile. “You’ve… let yourself go.”
She glanced at him, then her bump, and grinned. “It’s called pregnancy, Richard. People usually say ‘congratulations.’”
He deflated. James returned with croissants, wrapping an arm around Emma. “Everything alright?” he asked, eyeing Richard.
“Fine,” Richard muttered. “Just… saw an old friend. I’ll go.”
Emma watched him leave, feeling only relief.
“Who was that?” James asked.
“No one,” she said. “A shadow from the past.”
She bit into the croissant, gazing out. Ahead—life, warm, full of love and booties. Free of those who’d made her ashamed.
**Lesson learned:** Never shrink for someone who’s already small.
