**Diary Entry**
I just wanted to be happy.
Evelyn kicked the duvet aside, flipped her damp pillow to the cooler side, and lay back down. The slight chill helped, but sleep still wouldn’t come. The occasional tyre crunch on the wet road outside didn’t help. Nor did her thoughts. They were the worst. *Where’s that late driver rushing to? Home? Or is he running away from something—into the night? Who waits for him? Bloody heat…*
With a sigh, she got up. She knew the flat like the back of her hand, so she didn’t bother with the light. In the kitchen, she peered out the window. Two windows glowed in the house across the street. *Someone waiting for their wanderer—or mourning their absence?*
Young leaves rustled, blocking her view. Evelyn switched on the nightlight, poured water from the kettle into a glass, then turned it off again. One of the distant windows went dark. She sipped slowly, feeling the cool water settle her overheated body. The lino chilled her bare feet nicely.
Glass back on the sill, she returned to the bedroom—but the crumpled, damp sheets held no appeal. Instead, she went to the spare room and lay on the narrow, lumpy sofa, resting her head on a rock-hard cushion stuffed with who-knows-what.
And then—unexpectedly—she began to drift…
***
*”Speech! Speech!”* The guests raised champagne flutes, laughing.
Daniel stood, taking Evelyn’s hand. In her wedding heels, she nearly matched his height—could look him straight in the eye for once, not up at him like usual. His gaze was full of admiration—love, desire, pride. She leaned in, tilting her head so the veil hid her profile from the guests as they kissed.
*”One, two, three!”* the tipsy crowd counted.
Mum had taught her: a wife makes the home. A wife supports her husband. And so Evelyn threw herself into building their happiness.
At first, they did everything together—shopping, cooking, laughing between kisses. Until one day, distracted, they nearly burnt the roast. Love was easy then. It felt like it would always be that way.
Two years later, Evelyn had Sophie. Mum helped at first.
*”I’m exhausted,”* Evelyn complained about Daniel’s lack of help.
*”Men work hard. A woman’s lot is to keep the home,”* Mum said. *”Nap when she does. But if *he* doesn’t sleep, what kind of provider would he be?”*
Evelyn grew used to snatched sleep—even dozing on park benches during pram walks. When Sophie turned two, nursery freed her to return to work.
*”Once we retire in five years, we’ll take Sophie,”* Mum mused. *”Then you can have another.”*
But back at work, Evelyn didn’t want another child. Daniel didn’t push. And so it stayed.
*”Why do men stray? Because mistresses always look polished—while wives let themselves go,”* Mum warned.
So Evelyn made sure Daniel never saw her unkempt. She rose early to apply makeup before he woke.
Still, it wasn’t enough. Sophie grew up, left home—and Evelyn realised Daniel was swapping suits for jumpers. Started jogging, though he was already fit.
*”It’s the trend,”* he said.
When she spotted lipstick on his shirt, she confronted him. Caught off guard, he stumbled over excuses—then confessed. Asked her to let him go.
*”Am I stopping you? Go. But don’t come back.”*
She packed his things dry-eyed. He lingered in the hallway, glancing back—waiting for her to beg.
She crossed her arms. *Not a chance.*
Once he left, she collapsed on the sofa, howling into that same lumpy cushion. Life felt meaningless. She cried all night. By dawn, she’d dug out pills—ready to end it. But at the last moment, she rang her best friend.
*”Don’t you dare,”* her friend snapped, arriving within the hour. *”You’d just hand him a trophy. ‘Oh, what a man—women *die* for him!’ Don’t give him that.”*
So she didn’t. Slowly, she learned to live alone—discovering unexpected freedoms. Sleeping in. Wandering the flat bare-faced. Cooking less. Saving money for new clothes. Retail therapy—every woman’s cure.
Then Sophie had a baby boy, and Evelyn found fresh purpose. Being a grandma was *joy*. Lullabies, storybooks, sandcastles in the park.
She longed for Daniel to see her now—regret etched on his face. Did his new wife cook porridge, or just toast? Or—worse—did *he* bring her coffee in bed? Her imagination tormented her with images of him in a floral apron, grocery bags in hand…
It hurt. Was *he* happy too?
One spring afternoon, she sat on a bench watching little Henry play when a grey-haired man joined her.
*”Lovely weather, eh? Spring, but feels like summer! That your grandson? Handsome lad. Mine’s that little girl—Emily. Proper little darling.”*
He didn’t need replies—just an ear.
*”When my kids were young, my wife kept me at arm’s length. ‘You’ll do it wrong,’ she’d say. And I let her. Missed their first steps, first words… But with Emily? I’ve made up for it. Know her better than her parents do.”*
A pause. Then, quieter: *”If I could go back… I’d be different. My Margaret never complained. Gone now. Just me, rattling round an empty house.”*
Evelyn thought of Daniel. *Had he a new kid too? Pushing a pram now, changing nappies?* Resentment flared—for Sophie, denied that love.
*My fault. Shouldn’t have listened to Mum.*
Annoyed, she whisked Henry home mid-tantrum.
Next day, the man was there again. This time, she bragged about Henry’s milestones.
Later, he sighed. *”Lonely, isn’t it? Kids grown, grandkids will too. I’m not old yet—could find someone new.”* His glance was pointed.
Evelyn considered it. He seemed decent. No vices. *But a stranger’s habits, past… No.* After that, she took Henry to the next park over.
***
One morning, a knock interrupted breakfast.
*”Sophie’s early today,”* Evelyn murmured, heading to the door.
But it was Daniel.
She barely recognized him. The polished charmer was gone—replaced by a gaunt, hollow-cheeked man. Deep wrinkles. Thinning hair. His jacket hung loose. His eyes—haunted.
*”Evie… Thought I’d visit.”* He shrank under her gaze.
No suitcase. *Scouting the land,* she thought smugly. *”What’s wrong?”*
As he removed his coat, she spotted a grubby collar. *Has his new wife run him ragged?* Pity stirred. *No gloating. He’s still Sophie’s father.*
He caught her softening. *”Evie… I’m not well.”*
*”I see.”*
*”She’s sweet, but young. Wants parties. How can I keep up? I’m wrecked. Stomach’s a mess.”* He inhaled shakily. *”Can I stay? Just for a bit?”*
*”Fine. But *my* rules.”* She couldn’t turn him away—not like some stray.
*”Anything,”* he babbled. *”I can cook now—porridge, no lumps—”*
She pitied abandoned cats. But this was the man she’d shared decades with. Henry was a joy, but he couldn’t discuss rising bills or politics…
*”Hungry?”* She reheated soup without waiting for an answer. Made up the narrow sofa for him.
That night, she heard him toss and sigh. At dawn, she put the kettle on, made porridge. He didn’t emerge. *Is he dead?*
He was. Hand clamped over her mouth, she dialled 999, then Sophie.
*”A clot,”* the doctor said. *”Quick. No pain.”*
She buried him properly.
A week later, stepping out with Henry, she spotted a young woman by the bins—cheerful tote in hand. *Her.*
*”Evelyn?”*
She studied Daniel’s widow. Early thirties. Pretty, in a sharp way.
*”His things.”* The woman held out the bag.
Evelyn recoiled. *”I don’t want them.”*
*”Where’s his grave? I—I didn’t dare come to the funeral.”*
*”New cemetery.”*
*”I sent him back. Saw how he missed you…”*
*”Why take him then? Didn’t you know hisEvelyn tightened her grip on Henry’s small hand, took a deep breath of the spring air, and whispered to herself, *”Happiness isn’t something you find in another person—it’s something you build for yourself, one day at a time.”*
