**Diary Entry – A Life Unraveled**
Is anyone listening? I just need to open my eyes…
Margaret sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought. “I can’t forgive. How does one forgive betrayal? Then again, have I really suffered all these years? A flat in central London, a comfortable life. No real complaints. And yet…”
***
In school, Margaret had been top of her class. Her parents raised her to strive for excellence in everything.
But Mark? He barely scraped by in most subjects—except maths. There, he was brilliant, winning every competition. He always looked dishevelled, fingers tangling in his hair whenever he was stuck on a problem. A slight hunch, thick-rimmed glasses that made him look bookish. Girls didn’t interest him; theorems and equations did.
Then one day, someone knocked him in the hallway, sending his glasses flying. They shattered. In class, he squinted helplessly at the board. Margaret caught his profile—strong jaw, straight nose, soft lips, lashes framing deep-set eyes.
A nudge jolted her.
*”He’s actually handsome without those glasses,”* whispered her friend, Laura.
Margaret flushed but couldn’t help glancing back. After school, she approached him.
*”You look better without them. Ever tried contacts?”*
The next day, he arrived glasses-free—no squinting. His parents must have bought lenses.
*”Better?”* he asked at break.
*”Much.”* Margaret smiled.
From then on, they were inseparable. He rhapsodised about proofs; she listened, entranced. She tutored him in English and literature.
His maths prowess opened doors to top universities. For him, Margaret abandoned her plan to study literature in her hometown and followed him to London.
As graduation neared, her parents urged her to return home. She’d lost hope Mark would propose—until, just before she left, he awkwardly knelt with a ring box like something from an old film.
Mark pursued a PhD, began lecturing. The university gave them a cramped faculty flat—tiny kitchen, shared bathroom.
An average student, Margaret’s only option was teaching. After eighteen months, she gave birth to a daughter, Helen, and never returned to work. Mark earned his doctorate, won a prestigious prize for solving an impossible theorem. Margaret stayed home, raising their girl.
His papers published internationally. Harvard invited him to lecture. A professorship cemented his reputation. Margaret rejoiced in his success—she’d had a hand in it. They moved to a smart flat in Kensington.
Friends called them the perfect couple. Margaret’s world revolved around Mark and Helen, who grew into a beauty, marrying a promising young artist.
Then, one afternoon, the phone rang.
*”Mrs. Dawson? I thought you should know. Your husband is unfaithful.”* The woman’s voice was steady. *”He had an affair with my daughter. Left her devastated. Now it’s a junior lecturer. They attend conferences together… Hello? Are you listening?”*
The dial tone buzzed, but Margaret stood frozen. She wasn’t one for gossip—she’d see for herself. At the university, she waited outside his lecture hall.
When the doors burst open, students spilled out. Mark strode past, oblivious as ever. She lingered, then pushed into his office—and found him kissing a young woman.
***
*”What now?”* she asked the kitchen walls, eyes tracing the floral wallpaper.
The key turned in the lock.
*”I didn’t make dinner.”* The old worry flared—then died. *”Why bother? Let his new woman cook.”* She fetched a suitcase.
*”Sending all your dresses to the cleaners?”* Mark stood in the doorway, smirking.
Margaret met his gaze. *”No. These are your things. You’re leaving.”*
*”Why? Where?”* Genuine confusion now.
*”You dare ask? I saw you today—with her. You could’ve told me yourself.”*
*”Told you what? Who?”* His voice wavered.
*”People talk. Your affairs with students, junior staff. Be a man. Admit it.”*
*”I don’t understand—”* He looked away.
Margaret sank onto the bed, face in her hands.
*”Margaret—”* He reached for her.
She flinched. *”I devoted my life to you. Freed you to chase theorems, made sure you looked respectable. And you—”* Her gesture took in the room. *”All this is yours. I can’t even support myself. You stopped seeing me. Like furniture.”*
*”Where would I go? You’re the one with options. Think your mistress will let you sell this flat?”* She shoved the suitcase at him. *”Go to her.”*
*”You’re wrong. I’m not leaving.”*
The words stole her breath.
*”You’d bring her here? Sleep with her in our bed?”* She barely recognised him.
A long silence. Then Margaret walked out. She expected him to stop her. He didn’t.
On the bench outside, her legs gave way.
*”Margaret, love, are you ill?”* A neighbour hovered.
She shook her head. Called a taxi.
Helen’s flat was her next stop. *”Mum? What’s wrong?”*
*”I left your father. Can I stay awhile?”*
*”But—why?”*
*”He’s with someone else. I won’t pretend. He’s respected—soon everyone will know.”*
Helen brought water. *”Of course, but… Victor works from home. He can’t stand interruptions. Even his mum calls before visiting. Maybe… a hotel?”*
Margaret stared. She’d shielded Helen from every hardship—and now, her own daughter shut the door.
*”You’re right. A hotel’s best.”*
*”I’ll call a cab.”*
Margaret left.
***
The hotel room felt surreal. Morning brought fresh grief. Nearly fifty, and no one needed her.
A discarded newspaper caught her eye—*Jobs Today*. Circled ads: *Live-in nanny. Housekeeper.*
*”A professor’s wife, scrubbing floors?”* She shuddered. Tutoring, maybe? She’d helped Mark with his English for conferences.
She bought a paper, marked possibilities—then realised her phone was dead. Tomorrow, while Mark was at work, she’d fetch her charger.
The next morning, packing her things, her phone rang. Unknown number.
*”Mrs. Dawson? Your husband’s in cardiac care. He asked for you.”*
At the hospital, Mark brightened. *”Margaret, forgive me. I was cruel. Come home.”*
*”What about—”*
*”She left. I’ve been a fool.”*
She visited daily, bringing soup. He recovered quickly. Then one day, outside his room, she heard:
*”Annie! You came!”*
Margaret sank onto a bench.
*”Are you all right?”* An older doctor guided her to his office. Over tea, she spilled everything.
*”Bitterness destroys you. See a solicitor. As for your husband—I’ll make sure he understands the risks.”*
She never returned to the hospital. Two days later, the doctor called. The mistress, fearing she’d be stuck nursing an ageing man, had vanished. That night, Mark had another attack.
His funeral drew crowds—colleagues, students. So many kind words.
After, Margaret left London. What was there for her now? It’s never too late to start again.
