**Diary Entry – 12th May**
Polly threw back the duvet, flipped her damp pillow to the cooler side, and lay down again. The air was slightly fresher now, but sleep still wouldn’t come. The distant hum of tyres on wet tarmac outside, the odd passing car—it all gnawed at her. Worse still were the thoughts. “Where’s that late driver rushing to? Home? Or is he running *away* from something, disappearing into the night? Who’s waiting for him?” She exhaled sharply. “Bloody heat…”
She gave up and got out of bed. She knew the flat like the back of her hand, so she didn’t bother with the light. In the kitchen, she leaned against the window frame. Two windows across the street were still lit. “Someone waiting—or mourning?” The young leaves rustled, obscuring the view. Polly flicked on the nightlight, poured herself a glass of water, then turned it off again. One of the windows had gone dark. She sipped slowly, feeling the coolness seep into her body. The lino chilled her bare feet.
Glass left on the sill, she wandered back—but the messy, damp bed repelled her. Instead, she curled up on the stiff little sofa in the spare room, a lumpy cushion beneath her head.
And then, unexpectedly, sleep took her.
***
“Kiss! Kiss!” The guests clinked champagne flutes, drunk and giddy.
Ethan stood, pulling Polly up beside him. In her wedding heels, she was nearly his height—could look him square in the eye for once, not up from below. His gaze was warm, full of love and something else, something hungry. She tilted her head just so, letting the veil shield their faces from the crowd.
“One, two, three—” the guests slurred together.
Mum had always taught her: *A woman makes the home. A woman holds it all together.* So Polly had shouldered the weight of her marriage with quiet determination.
At first, she and Ethan did everything side by side—shopped, cooked, laughing over burnt bangers when they forgot the stove in favour of a kiss. They were in love. She’d thought it would never fade, that they’d stay young and happy forever.
Two years later, little Grace arrived. Mum helped at first.
“I’m exhausted,” Polly confessed once, resentful of Ethan’s absence.
“Men work, love. That’s a wife’s lot—home, children.” Mum patted her hand. “Sleep when Grace does. If *he*’s tired, who’ll put food on the table?”
So Polly learned to nap in stolen minutes, even nodding off on park benches during pram walks. When Grace turned two, Polly went back to work.
“Once I retire, we’ll take Grace,” Mum mused. “Then you’ll have another.”
But returning to the office, Polly couldn’t fathom a second child. Ethan didn’t push. It never happened.
“Why do men stray? Because the other woman’s always done up, while the wife lounges in a tatty dressing gown,” Mum warned.
So Polly woke early, made sure Ethan never saw her without lipstick, without effort.
It didn’t save them. Grace grew up, left home, and Polly realised Ethan had swapped his suits for joggers and hoodies. Started running, though he’d never been out of shape.
“It’s the trend,” he’d say. “Keeping up.”
When she found lipstick on his collar, she asked him outright. Caught off guard, he stammered, then cracked—asked her to let him go.
“Who’s stopping you? Go on. But don’t come crawling back.”
She packed his bags dry-eyed. He lingered in the hallway, slow with his coat, watching her—waiting for the scene, the begging.
Polly stood arms-crossed in the doorway. *Not a chance.*
He left. She collapsed on that same lumpy sofa and howled like a wounded thing. That night, she unscrewed a pill bottle. But at the last second, she rang her friend.
“Don’t you dare,” the woman hissed, arriving in minutes. “You want to make him a bloody legend? Let people say women *die* for him? Don’t give him that.”
So she didn’t. Slowly, she adjusted. Found the perks of solitude—sleeping in, padding about in her knickers, skipping makeup, cooking less. She shed weight, looked younger. Spent grocery savings on new dresses. Retail therapy, as they say.
Then Grace had a baby boy, and Polly found purpose again. She adored being Gran—singing lullabies, building sandcastles, reading stories.
Still, she fantasised about Ethan stumbling upon her, realising what he’d lost. Imagined his new wife—did she cook full breakfasts, or just toast? Maybe *he* brought *her* coffee in bed. The thought stung. Was *he* happy too?
One afternoon, a man her age sat beside her on the park bench.
“Lovely weather, eh? Feels like summer, and it’s only April.” He nodded at the sandpit. “Your grandson? Spitting image. That’s my little Katie there—proper angel, isn’t she?”
He didn’t need replies, just an ear.
“When my kids were young, the wife barely let me near ’em. Too nervous, she was. And I let her. Missed it all—first steps, first words. Don’t remember a thing.” His voice thickened. “But with Katie… It’s like I’ve been given a second chance. I know her better than her own parents.” A pause. “Regret’s a bastard. If I could go back… My Liz never complained. Gone now. Just me left.”
Polly thought of Ethan. *What if he’s got a new kid? Is he out here, pushing prams, changing nappies, making up for lost time?*
The unfairness burned. She snapped at the man, dragged Jamie home mid-tantrum.
They met again next day. This time, Polly bragged about Jamie’s milestones.
Then the man sighed. “Lonely, this. Wife’s gone, kids busy, Katie’ll grow up… I’m not old yet. Could start fresh.” His eyes lingered.
Polly considered it—he was decent, no vices. She wasn’t ancient either. But the thought prickled. *A stranger, his habits, his past… No.* After that, she avoided that bench.
***
The morning headache was brutal. She was toasting crumpets when the doorbell rang.
“Grace is early today,” she muttered, shuffling to the door.
But it wasn’t Grace.
Ethan stood there, hunched, older. His smartness had crumbled—deep wrinkles, thinning hair, a jacket hanging off him like a scarecrow’s rags. His eyes were dull, defeated.
“Polly… Thought I’d drop by.” He shrank under her stare.
No suitcase. *Scouting the land*, she thought smugly.
“What d’you want?”
As he shuffled inside, she spotted the grubby collar. Pity flickered. *Look at him. Worn to the bone. She’s run him ragged.* She pushed the thought down. *Not a stranger. Grace’s father. Jamie’s grandad.*
Ethan caught her softening. “Pol, I’m in a bad way.”
“Obviously.”
“She’s nice, just… young. Wants parties, dancing. I can’t keep up. Stomach’s a mess.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “Could I… stay? Just for a bit?”
She sighed. “Fine. My rules.”
“Anything. I can cook now—porridge without lumps, even.”
She couldn’t turn him away, not like a stray. Jamie was wonderful, but you couldn’t moan about bills or politics to a toddler.
She reheated stew, made up the old sofa for him. That night, she heard him toss and sigh.
At dawn, she put the kettle on, stirred porridge. Ethan didn’t emerge. *Slept through? Or—*
She nudged the sofa. Knew instantly.
Pressed a hand to her mouth. *He came home to die.*
The doctor said it was quick—a clot, no pain. She buried him properly.
A week later, a woman waited by the bins, clutching a tartan shopping bag. Polly knew.
“You’re Polly?”
She studied her replacement—not stunning, but striking.
“His things.” The woman held out the bag. “Just… where is he? I didn’t dare come to the funeral.”
“Keep them.” Polly’s voice was flat. “New cemetery.”
“I sent him back. Saw how miserable he was.”
“Why take him in the first place? Didn’t you know his age?”
The woman ducked her head. “Just wanted to be happy.” A pause. “Sorry—my daughter’s due home.”
As she hurried off, Polly watched, pity swallowing the anger. Ethan was gone. No oneShe turned back to her grandson, took his tiny hand in hers, and realised happiness wasn’t something you waited for—it was what you chose to hold onto, right here, right now.
