**Diary Entry**
*Friday, June 10th*
The medical school had been buzzing for a week about the upcoming volleyball match against the engineering college. My friend, Emily, had spent all morning trying to persuade me to come watch.
“I don’t care for volleyball—or sport in general. I don’t understand any of it,” I argued.
“What’s there to understand? We’ll just cheer for our side! Come on, for me?” she pleaded.
“It’s not about the match, is it? It’s Simon you’re after,” I sighed, finally giving in.
The hall was packed, benches along one wall crammed full. Surprisingly, I got swept up in the game, soon shouting and waving flags with the rest—red for medics, blue for engineers. In the end, our team won. Emily and I celebrated as if we’d played ourselves.
“Home?” I asked as we stepped outside. The streetlights flickered on against the darkening sky.
“Let’s wait for Simon, congratulate him. He’ll change and come out,” she rasped, her voice hoarse from cheering.
We didn’t wait long. Soon, Simon appeared with another lad—Edward, his opponent in the match. Turned out they’d been friends since school. The four of us walked together, dissecting the game before splitting off: Simon walked Emily home, and Edward walked me. That’s how we began seeing each other.
A year later, after I graduated, Edward and I married. He’d finished uni a year ahead of me and already had a steady job. Both sets of parents chipped in for the deposit, and we got a two-bedroom flat on a mortgage—planning ahead for children.
Our son, Thomas, arrived three years later, followed by our daughter, Charlotte, six years after that.
Between maternity leaves, I worked as a dentist, treating relatives, friends, and their connections. Edward was an engineer at a big firm. He rarely played volleyball now, only occasionally on summer beaches, but he’d kept his build—still lean and handsome. Every time I admired him, I remembered our first meeting. Hard to imagine I almost missed it.
Of course, the passion of newlywed days faded, but we lived well—hosting holidays, weekends barbecuing at friends’ cottages, seaside holidays. Even Turkey twice—once just us, once with Thomas (Charlotte was still a twinkle in our eyes then). Among friends, we were *that* couple—the ones who’d lasted.
Emily, bless her, envied me quietly, convinced she’d orchestrated our happiness. Had she not dragged me to that match, Edward and I might never have met. Yet things never worked out between her and Simon. She married, divorced within two years, and was still “actively searching.”
One evening, as I helped Thomas—now in Year 6—with homework, Charlotte sat beside us, tongue poked out in concentration over her drawings.
“Mum, your phone,” Thomas said, lifting his head.
I listened. It *was* vibrating—I usually kept it on silent. Calls came often: someone’s toothache needing advice, a favour for a colleague’s relative. I always answered. Duty of care, I suppose.
This time, it was Emily. “I’m busy with homework,” I said, asking her to call later.
“Later’ll be too late,” she replied. “Edward’s not home, is he?”
“Working late. Why?”
“He’s *not* at work. I just saw him in a restaurant with some stunning girl. I’m there with a date—stepped outside to call you. They left in *his* car. Going to hers, I’d bet. Sorry, love, but this isn’t some fling. It’s serious. I’ve got an eye for these things. Hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said.
I *knew* women fancied Edward, but he’d never given me reason to doubt him. Emily had been drinking—might’ve imagined it. Or had I missed the signs?
“I’ve barely had a drop,” she said, as if reading my mind. Her voice *was* steady. “Don’t think I’m ringing out of spite. I *adore* you both. Never once tried to poach him—he’s mad about you. But I couldn’t stay quiet.”
Her date was a policeman. Did I want him to dig up details? She’d gladly rip the other woman’s hair out. *”Women like her don’t deserve decent men. You’ve two kids—fight for him! Should I find out more?”*
*Would I have believed anyone else? But Emily wouldn’t lie. Why would she?*
“You’re quiet,” she pressed.
“Find out,” I said, tossing the phone away like it was to blame.
“Mum?” Thomas called.
“One sec.”
I stood at the kitchen window, trembling. Edward—with someone else. My mind flashed to an old film: *”It Can’t Be True!”* But Emily knew him for years—she wouldn’t mistake him.
My fingers turned to ice, heart aching, face burning, yet inside—empty cold. *”Maybe she was wrong? A business dinner? But Emily said it’s serious. Men stray. It happens. He’s always turned heads—who’d know better than me? Do I scream, smash plates? Scare the kids? Push him away? Mistresses play the opposite game—all patience, no demands… What now?”*
“Mum, I can’t solve this sum,” Thomas said, hovering in the doorway.
“I’ll come,” I replied flatly, not turning.
When Edward got home, I’d steadied myself—greeted him with a smile.
“Shall I heat dinner?”
“Nah, had coffee at work. Knackered. Shower, then bed.”
After tucking Charlotte in, I sat nursing tea at the kitchen table, thinking, thinking…
I crept into bed beside his sleeping form. Dawn neared before I slept. *Who could, after news like that?*
Next morning, grit-eyed and head throbbing, I made breakfast. Edward woke fresh, wolfed it down.
“Could you drop Charlotte at nursery? I’m not well.”
“Course. Rest—you’re on lates, yeah?” Always remembering shifts, birthdays, anniversaries. Just another morning. *Except it wasn’t.*
“Don’t work late today? Pick Charlotte up?”
“Yeah, yeah. Didn’t need to remind me,” he called from the hall.
Two days later, after my shift, I visited Mum—needed to talk.
“What should I do?”
“I don’t know, love. When your dad strayed, I threw a fit—screamed, trashed *her* flat. Nearly brained her with a stool. He walked in, stopped me.”
*”You!?”*
“Shocking, eh? Later, I was ashamed. Rage does mad things. Your dad said he’d never live with me after that. Left… I wept for weeks. Then he came back—but *I* wouldn’t let him in.”
“Regret not forgiving him?”
“At first, no—hard as it was. But I only had *you*; you’ve two. A boy needs his dad. Later? Yes. None of us were happy. He stayed with her—nowhere else to go—till he died. *You* decide—it’s your life. If you love Edward, fight. Age teaches you: alone is *hard.*”
Next day, Emily marched into my clinic with the mistress’s address.
“So—he *did* cheat,” I said bitterly, taking the paper.
“You *doubted* me? I’d never lie about this! What’ll you do?”
“What would *you* do?”
*”Me? I’d make her pay—arsenic in her tea, acid in her face! Or curse her! What—too much telly? Not angelic yourself, are you? Always two at fault. Thought it’d never happen to me. Shouldn’t have relaxed.”*
She offered her copper boyfriend’s “connections” to rough Edward up. *”He’d thank you after, nursing his wounds!”*
“*Emily!* Don’t you dare! I’ll handle it.”
By day’s end, I’d decided. That evening, I asked Edward to pick Charlotte up next day.
“But you’re on earlies?”
“Visiting Mum—her blood pressure’s up.”
“Right.”
All evening, I was distant.
“You’ve been off lately. Work trouble?” Edward asked.
God, how I wanted to scream: *”I’m disgusted! I *know*! Hate you! Should I throw you out, bar you from the kids, or *maim* her!? Just end this torture!”*
“Worried about Mum,” I said.
Next day, post-work, I went not to Mum’s, but *hers.* Emily had given me her schedule. Easy to plan—harder to act. My hands shook outside her building. *”Just see her,”* I told myself.
AnThrough the years, the wound scarred over, but the quiet fear remained—tucked away like a snake in winter, coiled yet never quite asleep.
