**Diary Entry 12th January**
I thought my husband was just in a foul mood until I found the divorce papers in his desk.
Wheres my striped blue shirt? Victor stood in the middle of the bedroom, trousers on but bare-chested, rifling through the wardrobe.
In the wash, replied Marina from the bathroom, rolling curlers into her hair. Wear the light blue oneits just as nice.
I dont want light blue, I want striped blue! How many times do I have to tell you to do the laundry on time?
I only washed it yesterdayyou wore it the day before.
So? If you knew I had a meeting today, youd have made sure it was dry!
Marina stepped out, studying him. Lately, he snapped at everythingunderseasoned soup, dust on the telly, the wrong shirt.
I could iron the white one for you. It suits you.
Dont bother! Victor yanked the first shirt he found, fumbling with the buttons, hands shaking with anger.
Whats wrong with you? You havent been yourself all week.
Nothings wrong. Just tired. Works mad.
Maybe see a doctor? Get your blood pressure checked?
For Gods sake, Marina, stop nagging! Im not ill!
He grabbed his jacket and briefcase, slamming the door behind him. Marina stood frozen. Her chest ached. In twenty years of marriage, hed never raised his voice. Now every morning began with an argument.
Breakfast cooled on the kitchen tablescrambled eggs, toast, coffee, just how he liked it. Lately, he left without eating. Not hungry, hed mutter.
She poured herself tea. Theyd talk tonightcalmly, no accusations. Maybe work *was* the problem. Or his health.
Her phone rang. Natalie, her best mate.
You coming to yoga tonight?
Not sure. Not in the mood.
Whats up?
Victors been so distant. Picking fights over nothing.
Midlife crisis? Mine went through thatbought a motorbike, got over it.
No, hes not like that. Hates change.
Then its work. Dont overthink it.
Marina tidied up, made lunch. Roast dinnerhis favourite. Maybe comfort food would help.
At the shops, she ran into Mrs. Whitaker from next door.
Havent seen Victor in ages!
Works late nowadays.
Good man. Not like my layabout husband, glued to the telly.
Marina smiled, but unease settled in. He *had* been coming home later. No calls, no warningsjust silent dinners and bed.
That afternoon, she tidied his study. Normally off-limits, but he wouldnt be back till evening.
It was cramped but cosybookshelves, a desk, their wedding photo on the wall. Two strangers, grinning madly in love.
Dusting the shelves, she noticed a folder jutting from the desk drawer. She tugged it free to neaten it.
*Personal.* Her pulse spiked. What secrets did he have?
Inside: a solicitors card*Andrew Peterson, Family Law.* Printouts: *How to File for Divorce.* A completed application, signed by Victor.
She sank into his chair, vision blurring. *Divorce?*
Bank statements, property splitsall itemised. A handwritten note: *Tell her after New Years. Flat: 50/50. Car: mine. Cottage: hers.*
Two weeks. Two weeks of pretending while he planned his escape.
The front door clicked. Early for once.
Marina? You home?
She shoved the folder back. In here.
He sniffed the air. Roast?
Yes.
He served himself, eating mechanically. She studied himsame hands, same face, now a stranger.
We need to talk.
He didnt look up. About?
*Us.* Youve changed.
Not now. Im knackered.
Youre always angry.
Im *not* angry. Works just
Its *not* work.
He set his fork down, guilt flashing then vanishing. Lets not do this now.
She wanted to scream: *Why pretend?* But the words died in her throat.
Later, in bed, he faced the wall. No goodnight kiss. No touch.
Marina?
Hm?
Late again tomorrow. Office party.
Right.
He sighed. Dont be cross. Just tired.
But she wasnt. She was hollow.
**Morning.** Victor left without breakfast. Marina rang Natalie.
Can I come over?
Natalies flat was warmtea, biscuits, a cat purring on her lap. Marina told her everything.
The *bastard.* Twenty years and he pulls this?
Maybe theres someone else?
Who cares? If hes leaving, he should say it outright!
What if he changes his mind?
Hes *hired a solicitor,* love.
Marina returned home, numb. Dinner waited. Victor stumbled in at eleven, reeking of wine.
Still up?
Waiting for you.
Ate at the party. He swayed towards the bedroom.
Who was there?
Everyone. Why?
Just wondering Lucy, your assistant?
He stiffened. Yeah. So?
Nothing.
Later, she checked his phonepasscode: his birthday. Messagescolleagues, his mum, then an unknown number:
*Papers ready. Start proceedings after holidays.*
*Cheers. Transferring funds tomorrow.*
*Prepare your wifeits always rough.*
*Will do. Talking in January.*
She stepped onto the balcony, the cold sharpening her thoughts.
Two weeks. Two weeks of charades. Last New Years, hed toasted her with champagne, whispered *I love you.* Had he lied then?
**Next morningclear-headed.** Victor sipped coffee at the table.
Youre seeing your mum today?
Yeah. Help with gifts.
Just you? He always asked her alongeven knowing shed refuse.
Yeah. You hate shopping.
True.
He frowned. Youre not bothered?
Why would I be?
He left, uneasy. She dialled the solicitor from his folder.
Andrew Peterson met her at a cafépolite, mid-fifties.
Your husbands within his rights, Im afraid.
Why the secrecy?
Cold feet, perhaps. Post-holiday splits are common.
What do I do?
Wait. File first. Or confront him.
And the assets?
Fifty-fifty, unless theres infidelity.
She left, shattered. Twenty yearshalved like a maths problem.
At home, she scrolled through photoswedding, holidays, birthdays. Were they ever happy? Or had she imagined it?
Victor called. Running late. Mum wants me for dinner.
Fine.
You alright alone?
*Since when did he care?* Im fine.
That night, she pulled the folder again. The divorce reason: *Irreconcilable differences.* Twenty years reconcileduntil now.
A new documenta bank account in his name, opened three months back. A hefty sum. So *thats* where his bonuses went.
Victor returned cheery. Mum says hi. Asked about grandkids.
Marina nearly laughed. *Grandkids?* While he plotted his exit.
They slept back-to-back. Tomorrowthe talk. No more pretending.
**Morning.** She cooked his favourites.
Whats the occasion? He eyed the spread.
We need to talk.
His fork froze. About?
She met his gaze. Do you still love me?
What kind of
Dont lie. I *know.* The divorce papers.
Colour drained from his face. You went through my things?
I *cleaned.* Why didnt you tell me?
Silence. Then a ragged sigh. I couldnt. Thought after the holidays.
Is there someone else?
No. I just dont feel it anymore. Were like flatmates.
But we could fix itcounselling, a holiday
Ive *tried.* Three months of pretending. I cant do it.
*Twenty years.* So thats it?
Im sorry.
She packed a suitcase while he hovered, stunned.
The flat the assets
Fifty-fifty. Like you planned.
He stammered protests, but she was already out the door.
Snowflakes kissed her face.
