**A Diary Entry: The Shattered Facade**
I can’t believe it’s come to this. Sitting here at the kitchen table, I keep asking myself—should I forgive him? No. Betrayal is unforgivable. And yet… have I had a bad life? A flat in central London, everything I could ever need. No real complaints. But still…
***
At school, I was the perfect student—all A’s, always. That’s just how my parents raised me. To do everything properly.
Then there was James. Barely scraped by in most subjects, except maths. There, he was brilliant. Won every competition, top of the class. Always dishevelled, fingers tangled in his messy hair whenever he was stuck on a problem. Hunched slightly, thick-rimmed glasses making him look every bit the awkward academic. Girls didn’t interest him—just theorems, equations.
One day, someone bumped into him between lessons. His glasses fell, shattered. In class, he squinted uselessly at the board. And for the first time, I noticed his profile—sharp jaw, straight nose, soft lips, lashes so thick they cast shadows.
A nudge at my shoulder made me jump.
“Not bad without the glasses, is he?” whispered my friend Emily.
I glanced away, embarrassed, but minutes later, my eyes drifted back. After school, I stopped him. “You look better without them. Ever tried contacts?”
The next day, he arrived glasses-free—and not squinting. He’d gotten contacts.
“Better?” he asked at break.
“Much,” I smiled.
We started dating. He rambled about numbers; I hung on every word. I helped him with English lit, dragged his essays up to passing marks. His maths trophies opened doors to any university. For him, I changed my plans—ditched studying literature back home in Manchester, followed him to London.
By graduation, my parents begged me to return. I’d given up hope James would ever propose. Then, the night before my train, he dropped to one knee, fumbling with a ring box like some old-fashioned film.
He started his PhD, lectured freshmen. The university gave us a cramped staff flat—tiny kitchen, shared bathroom. I was an average student; teaching was my only option. A year and a half later, our daughter Sophie was born, and I never went back. James earned his doctorate, won awards for proving some impossible theorem. I stayed home, raised our girl.
His papers got published internationally. Harvard invited him to lecture. A professorship followed. We moved from that tiny flat to a proper home in Kensington. Friends called us the perfect couple. Sophie grew up beautiful, married young—a promising painter.
Then, the call.
“Mrs. Whitmore? I thought you should know. Your husband is unfaithful.” A stranger’s voice, calm. “He had an affair with my daughter. Nearly destroyed her. Now it’s a junior lecturer. They travel together for conferences—”
I hung up but didn’t believe it. Not without proof. I went to the university, waited outside his lecture hall. When the doors swung open, students poured out. James walked right past me—never looked my way. Then I saw them. In his office, kissing.
***
“What now?” I stared at the floral wallpaper, numb.
The key turned in the lock.
For a second, I panicked—no dinner ready—then stopped. *Let his new woman cook.* I yanked a suitcase from the cupboard.
“Taking all your dresses to the cleaner’s?” James leaned in the doorway. His tone wasn’t surprise—mockery.
I met his eyes. “No. *You’re* leaving.”
“What? Why?” Finally, confusion.
“You know why. I saw you. With *her*.”
He looked away.
I sank onto the bed, hid my face. “I gave up everything for you. Your work, your reputation—all I ever did was make sure you never had to worry. And you—” My voice broke. “You stopped seeing me. Like furniture.”
His hand touched my shoulder. I shoved it off.
“I’ve got nowhere to go. *You* do. Think she’ll let you sell this place?” I pushed the suitcase at him. “Go. Now.”
He didn’t move. “Fine. *You* leave.”
The words knocked the air from me.
“You’d bring her *here*? Into our bed?” I stood, trembling. “I don’t even know you anymore.”
No answer. Just silence as I walked out.
On the bench outside, my legs gave way. A neighbour stopped. “Marianne, love, you alright?”
I shook my head, called a taxi. Couldn’t bear the pity.
Sophie’s flat. “Mum? What’s wrong?”
“I left your father. Can I stay awhile?”
Her hesitation was a knife. “You know Victor works from home… Maybe a hotel?”
Of course. The daughter I coddled, shielded from every hardship—now wouldn’t even let me past the foyer.
“Right. A hotel.”
***
Morning brought clarity. Fifty years old, and nothing to show for it. No skills but housekeeping. No one who needed me.
An abandoned newspaper—*Jobs Today*—caught my eye. Live-in nanny, housekeeper… *Professor’s wife scrubbing floors*. I gagged. Tutoring? James’s foreign trips meant I’d kept up my French. Maybe that.
At the hotel, I circled ads—no age limits, no experience demanded. But my phone died. Tomorrow, while James was at work, I’d fetch my charger.
The next morning, the flat was silent. Phone plugged in, clothes half-packed when it rang. Unknown number.
“Mrs. Whitmore? Your husband’s had a heart attack. He’s asking for you.”
The hospital. James, pale, clutching my hand. “Come home. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
I visited daily, brought soup. He improved fast. Then, outside his room one afternoon, I heard it—
“Annette! You came!”
I nearly collapsed. A doctor steadied me, listened as I spilled everything.
“Resentment will poison you,” he said. “See a solicitor. And I’ll… advise your husband on the risks of his lifestyle. He’s already had one heart attack.”
I never went back. Two days later, the doctor called. Annette had bolted at the first sign of real sickness. That night, another attack.
The funeral was packed. Colleagues, students—all praising the brilliant Professor Whitmore.
After, I took the train north. What’s left for me in London?
Perhaps it’s never too late to start again.
