**Diary Entry**
I still remember that day so vividly—the smell of onions frying in the pan, the sizzle of fat, and the sudden ring of the phone cutting through the quiet. My husband, Edward, picked up. His voice was calm, controlled.
“Hello?”
Then silence. Long and heavy, as though someone was speaking without pause, and he simply listened. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped into the hallway. Empty. The phone cord trailed toward the nursery. My heart clenched. Without knowing why, I tiptoed closer, as if sneaking up on a thief.
From behind the slightly ajar door, I heard a whisper. A tone he had never used with me.
“Emily, please, calm down… I understand, I really do. But try to understand me too. I have a family—I can’t come now. I love you. So much. But I can’t talk, not like this. Charlotte might walk in any moment. I need to tell her, but not yet. Tomorrow. Please, don’t call here at this time. And yes… I love you.”
It felt like an electric shock. My hand, ready to push the door open, froze mid-air. My heart pounded so hard I could barely breathe. *”I love you.”* He’d said it—to another woman. Not me.
I didn’t make a scene. My mother’s voice echoed in my head: *”Never act in anger.”* I straightened my back, walked back to the kitchen, and picked up the knife. But my hands shook. The pieces of beef fell unevenly on the chopping board. Our tabby, Pippa, brushed against my legs, and I tossed her a scrap—an absentminded kindness.
*”I love you too…”* Those words looped in my mind like a curse. I clung to the other phrase he’d said: *”I have a family…”* Did that still matter? Was I still important?
Then what was I? Just the mother of his children? A housekeeper? A habit? A dull ache pressed against my chest. Everything had been fine. He was affectionate, attentive. There’d never been a hint of distance—never any reason to doubt.
Twenty minutes later, Edward returned to the kitchen, inhaled deeply, and smiled.
“God, that smells amazing! Dinner soon?”
“Half an hour. I cut the meat small—it’ll cook faster.” I hesitated. “Who called?”
“What? Oh—work. They need me in tomorrow to inspect a timber delivery.”
“Quite a lot of weekend shifts lately. I don’t like it.”
“Summer holidays—everyone’s out.”
“Sure.”
“You seem down, Lottie.”
“Just tired. Thought we’d spend tomorrow together, maybe go to the cottage.”
“You’re working. We’ll go in the evening.”
“Ed…?”
“What?”
“Do you love me?”
“Of course I do. Don’t be daft. I love you, Lottie. And the boys. You know family means everything to me.”
He pulled me into a hug, kissed my neck. But for the first time in my life, his touch made my skin crawl.
That night, I lay on the sofa watching the boys play. Pippa jumped onto my stomach, kneading her claws—thanking me for the treat. I cupped her paws, pressing my face into her fur.
*That woman… she needs to go.*
I wouldn’t share him. I couldn’t sleep beside him knowing he’d been with someone else. But losing him was unbearable. The answer came in a flash: deal with her myself. No hesitation.
The next day, after he dropped the boys at nursery and left for “work,” I called in sick and stayed home. Disguised in a borrowed paint-splattered smock and scarf, I waited near the nursery. Soon enough, Edward emerged. I shadowed him through backstreets.
He stopped at the market for haddock and fruit before turning into a row of terraced homes—*She lives there.* He disappeared behind one of the gates.
I sat on a bench. Waited. Then he reappeared—not alone. A tall blonde beside him. They walked toward the woods—the same path we’d once strolled together. I trudged home, my mind searing, my heart hollow.
Days later, I got a proper look at *Emily.* Pretty, of course. Early thirties. Then, luck struck—I overheard her chatting with a friend.
“Emily? Single mum with a sick kid, left by her bloke. Now she’s seeing a married man—swears he’ll leave his wife for her…”
Rage boiled inside me. But I smiled.
On a half-day at work, I set out for my *visit.*
Emily was in the garden. I faked a dizzy spell, earned her sympathy. A glass of water, then—suddenly—”I see your fate.”
First shock, then scepticism. But when I recited her past—husband gone, child, scars—she believed me. Wide-eyed.
“With this man… it won’t last. He’s tied to his wife. He’ll never leave.”
“He will! I’ll make him! I’ll have his child!”
“He won’t be yours!”
“He **will!**”
Then—the haddock across her face. A scuffle. I hit her, shouting:
“He’s *my* husband! **Mine!** Stay away from him!”
Tears, mud, torn smock—but I walked away with my head high.
A week later, Edward stopped getting called in on weekends. No more fishy scent. I’d won. Emily vanished. For good.
Years passed. We moved on. Quietly. He—distant, melancholy. Me—calm. The boys grew up. Life carried on.
Then, near the end of his life, as the days dwindled—a woman entered his hospital room. I eavesdropped. *Emily.* They wept. He whispered her name. Said goodbye.
I met her eyes. She walked out without a word. Neither of us acknowledged the other. Or perhaps we pretended.
That night, sitting at his bedside, I wondered:
*Maybe it really was love? Deep. Real. Quiet.*
But…
Life demands sacrifice.
And if someone had to suffer—better it be me than my children. Because family comes first.
