**Diary Entry 8th December**
I thought my husband was just in a foul mood until I found the divorce papers in his desk.
“Wheres my blue striped shirt?” Victor stood in the middle of the bedroom in just his trousers, rifling through the wardrobe in irritation.
“Its in the wash,” Margaret answered from the bathroom, rolling her hair in curlers. “Wear the light blue oneits just as nice.”
“I dont want light blue, I want the striped one! How many times do I have to say itdo the laundry on time!”
“Victor, you wore it the day before yesterday. I only washed it yesterday.”
“So? If you knew I had a meeting today, youd have dried it!”
Margaret stepped out, studying him. Lately, he snapped at anythingthe soup being under-seasoned, dust on the telly, the wrong shirt.
“Shall I iron the white one? It suits you.”
“Dont bother ironing anything! Ill sort it myself!”
Victor yanked out the first shirt he found, pulling it on with trembling hands.
“Victor, whats wrong? You havent been yourself all week.”
“Nothings wrong. Just tired. Works mad.”
“Maybe see the doctor? Check your blood pressure?”
“Margaret, drop it! Stop making me out to be ill!”
He grabbed his jacket and briefcase, slamming the door behind him. Margaret stood frozen. Her chest ached. In twenty years of marriage, hed never raised his voice. Now every morning began with complaints.
Breakfast cooled on the kitchen tablescrambled eggs, toast, coffee, just how he liked it. But lately, he left without eating. Claimed he wasnt hungry.
Margaret sipped her tea. Shed talk to him tonightcalmly, no accusations. Maybe it *was* work or his health?
Her friend Laura called. “Still coming to Pilates?”
“Not sure. Not in the mood.”
“Whats wrong?”
“Victors been so snappy. Picking fights over nothing.”
“Midlife crisis? Mine went through that. Bought a motorbike, calmed right down.”
“Doesnt seem like him. He hates change.”
“Then its work. Dont overthink it.”
Margaret tidied the flat, made lunchbeef stew, his favourite. Maybe good food would lift his mood.
At the shops, she ran into Mrs. Thompson from next door. “Havent seen Victor in ages!”
“Works late most days.”
“Such a hard worker. Unlike my layaboutwears the sofa out.”
Margaret smiled, but unease gnawed at her. He *had* been coming home later. No calls, just silence over dinner and straight to bed.
She decided to tidy his studya rare intrusion. The small room held books, a desk, their wedding photo on the wall: young, smiling, in love.
Dusting the shelves, she noticed a folder jutting from the half-open top drawer. She meant to push it back, but the label*Private*stopped her.
Inside: a solicitors card (*James Pearson, Family Law*), printouts on divorce procedures, a completed petition signed by Victor.
Her hands shook. Divorce?
Beneath lay handwritten notes: *Tell her after New Years. Split the flat. Carmine. Cottagehers.*
Two weeks. Hed planned it all while she cooked his meals and ironed his shirts.
The front door slammed. “Margaret? You home?”
She shoved the folder back. “Early today.”
“Meeting got cancelled.” He ladled stew into a bowl.
“Victor, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He didnt look up.
“Us. Youve changed.”
“Not now. Im tired.”
“Youre angry all the time.”
“Im not angry. Just busy.”
“Its not work.”
He set his spoon down. Guilt flickered, then vanished. “Margaret, lets not do this now.”
“I *need* to understand.”
“Understand what? Everythings fine.”
She nearly mentioned the folder*Why pretend when its decided?*but her throat closed.
Later, in bed, he faced the wall. No goodnight kiss. No embrace.
“Margaret, you awake?”
“No.”
“Working late again tomorrow. Office party.”
“Fine.”
“Dont be cross. Just knackered.”
“Mm.”
But she didnt understand. How could he share a bed while hiding divorce papers?
Morning came. Victor left without breakfast. Margaret rang Laura.
“Can I come over?”
“Whats happened?”
“Ill explain.”
At Lauras, tea in hand, she confessed.
“The *bastard*,” Laura spat. “Twenty years, and he pulls this?”
“Maybe theres someone else?”
“Who cares? If he wanted out, he shouldve said so!”
“I cant believe it. What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. Men lose their minds after forty.”
That evening, Victor came home tipsy.
“Youre still up?”
“Waited for you. Dinners ready.”
“Not hungry. We ate.”
“Good party?”
“Fine.” He headed to bed.
“Was Emily there? Your assistant?”
He stiffened. “Yes. Why?”
“No reason.”
While he snored, she checked his phone. A text from an unknown number: *Papers ready. Well file after the holidays. Prepare your wifeits always rough.*
Victors reply: *Will do. Talk after New Years.*
Cold air on the balcony cleared her head. So that was it. Two weeks of pretending. Decorating the tree, buying gifts, all while he counted down to *”We need to talk.”*
Last New Years, hed toasted her, given pearl earrings, said *I love you.* Had he lied then?
Next morning, resolve hardened. No more waiting. No humiliation. If he wanted out, hed say it *now.*
Over breakfast, she asked, “Do you still love me?”
He paled. “Of course.”
“Dont lie. I saw the papers.”
His fork clattered. “Snooping?”
“Tidying. Why keep it secret?”
He exhaled. “Couldnt find the right time. Thought after the holidays…”
“Is there someone else?”
“No. I just… dont feel it anymore. Were like flatmates.”
“We could try counseling. A holiday.”
“I *have* tried. For months. Im done pretending.”
She studied himhis hands, his facenow a strangers.
“Twenty years, Victor. Do they mean nothing?”
“They do. But I cant fake it forever.”
“Neither can I.”
She packed a bag.
“Where are you going?”
“To Claires. File the papers yourself.”
“But the flatthe assets”
“Split it. Like you planned.”
Snow fell as she hailed a taxi. Cold. But lighter, somehow.
At Claires, her sister poured wine. “Youll be alright. Fresh start.”
Victor called. She ignored it. His text: *Im sorry. Never meant to hurt you.*
She deleted it. Then his number.
New Years Eve passed quietlytea, cake, an old film. At midnight, his message: *Happy New Year. Be happy.*
She deleted that too.
A blank page. Terrifying. But maybejust maybefor the best.
**Lesson:** Love can fade quietly, like ink in the rain. But silence? Thats a choice. And no one deserves to be its casualty.
