**Diary Entry – 12th May**
I flew out a day early for my ex-mother-in-law’s anniversary party, and the moment I settled into my plane seat, I flinched—someone had just called my name unexpectedly.
I’d been nervously twisting the strap of my handbag while queuing at check-in. The party wasn’t until tomorrow, but I’d deliberately booked an early flight. I knew Oliver, true to form, would leave everything to the last minute and probably only fly out the next morning. Three years had passed since the divorce, and in all that time, living in the same city, we’d somehow never crossed paths. Now, more than ever, I wanted to preserve that fragile peace.
“Seat 12A,” I scanned my boarding pass. Window seat, just how I liked it. Once settled, I pulled out my book—a new novel I’d started yesterday and couldn’t put down. A story about love, betrayal, and forgiveness. I used to avoid those themes, but time does strange things to your heart.
“Emily?” A familiar voice made me stiffen. “Well, this is a coincidence…”
I looked up slowly. Oliver stood in the aisle, gripping his suitcase handle. Still as put-together as ever in his favourite grey blazer. Only now there were streaks of silver at his temples I hadn’t noticed before.
“You’re never early,” slipped out instead of a greeting.
“And you always plan everything down to the minute,” he smiled, fishing out his ticket. “Ah. 12B.”
My cheeks burned. Three hours beside the man I’d carefully avoided for years. Fate had a cruel sense of humour.
“I can switch with someone—” Oliver began.
“Don’t bother,” I cut in. “We’re adults.”
He nodded and sat down. His cologne—the same one as always—hit me like a punch to the chest. How many mornings had I woken up to that scent?
“How’s work?” he asked after takeoff, when the silence became unbearable.
“Good. Opened my own yoga studio,” I kept my voice steady. “Still at the same firm?”
“No, moved into consulting. Remember how I always talked about it?”
Of course I remembered. Just like I remembered the fights. I’d feared change; he’d craved it. Now, years later, we’d both gotten what we wanted. So why did my heart ache?
“Mum will be glad to see you,” Oliver said after a pause. “She still has that ceramic vase you gave her last time.”
“Margaret was always…,” I hesitated, “so kind to me.”
“Even after the divorce, she said you were the best daughter-in-law she could’ve asked for.”
My eyes prickled traitorously. I reached for my book, desperate for distraction.
“What are you reading?” He glanced at the cover.
“*The Art of Letting Go*,” I said, and we both fell silent, the irony hanging between us.
The rest of the flight passed quietly, but it was a different quiet—not strained, but almost comfortable, like it used to be. When we landed in Manchester, Oliver helped me with my bag.
“Share a cab?” he offered. “We’re heading the same way.”
I hesitated. Three years ago, we’d parted certain we’d never share space again. Yet here we were, and the world hadn’t ended.
“Fine,” I nodded. “But I’ll navigate. You always argue with the GPS.”
He laughed, and something fluttered in my chest. Maybe sometimes you have to let go of the past to lighten the present?
Stepping off the plane, I realised—for the first time in years—I didn’t regret this accidental meeting. Ahead lay the party, awkward glances from relatives, and a celebration I’d braced myself for. But now, somehow, I knew we’d manage. After all, we always had.
The cab wound through Manchester’s evening streets. True to my word, I tracked the route, occasionally correcting the driver. Oliver sat beside me, his knee inches from mine.
“Turn right here,” I said, and he smirked—I still knew the way to his parents’ better than he did.
“Remember our first visit to Mum’s?” he asked suddenly. “You were so nervous…”
“Of course!” I scoffed. “I changed outfits three times. Wanted to make a good impression.”
“Then spilled gravy all over yourself.”
We laughed, and for a second, time folded in on itself. But the cab stopped outside the familiar house, and the moment dissolved into twilight.
Margaret met us at the door, clasping her hands. “You came together? What a surprise!”
“Ran into each other on the plane,” I said quickly, catching the hope in her eyes.
“Come in! Emily, I’ve made up your old room—”
I froze. *My* room—the upstairs bedroom where Oliver and I had always stayed. Where morning sun painted patterns on the wallpaper, and the old apple tree stood just beyond the window…
“Mum, maybe I’ll take the guest room—” Oliver started.
“Nonsense!” Margaret cut in. “That’s for tomorrow’s guests. Emily takes the bedroom, you take your childhood room. Same as always.”
*Same as always.* The words echoed. Nothing was the same. But no one argued with Margaret.
The evening blurred with preparations. I helped in the kitchen; Oliver sorted boxes in the attic. We carefully avoided being alone together—though under one roof, that proved impossible.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. The bed felt too big, too empty. Next door, floorboards creaked—Oliver was awake too. I knew that rhythm: three steps to the window, four back. He’d always paced when thinking.
Then silence. I turned toward the window. The apple tree rustled, leaves silver in the moonlight. For a heartbeat, the last three years felt like a dream. But this was real—we were here, under one roof, the same yet utterly changed.
Morning brought coffee and Margaret humming in the kitchen. I set the table while Oliver appeared, tousled and sheepish. We exchanged nods. Over breakfast, we talked of weather, the party, everything and nothing. There was a bittersweet comfort in it.
By evening, the house buzzed with guests. I moved between rooms with trays, as if no time had passed. Oliver greeted people, his gaze occasionally finding mine.
“Emily, love,” Margaret pulled me aside, hugging me tightly. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Happy anniversary,” I handed her a bouquet and a small box. “A bracelet—handmade. Like the one you admired at that jeweller’s in York.”
Her eyes glistened. “You remember that? Sit with me a moment.”
We settled in the study. She took my hand. “I always thought you and Oliver rushed the divorce. Both so stubborn…”
“Margaret—”
“No, I’m not meddling. But… he’s changed, Emily. And so have you. Sometimes it takes time to see things clearly.”
The party rolled on—speeches, music, dancing. I caught myself searching for Oliver in the crowd. He seemed to be doing the same.
Late that night, when most guests had left, we slipped onto the veranda. Oliver handed me a glass of wine.
“Remember when we made plans out here?”
I nodded. This was where we’d decided to marry.
“I panicked,” he admitted quietly. “When you talked about kids, a house… I buried myself in work.”
“And I didn’t understand your fear,” I said. “I pushed. Thought if we didn’t act fast, we’d lose something precious.”
“Neither of us knew how to listen.”
Stars glimmered above the garden, just like before. Inside, faint music played.
“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” I confessed. “She said we often ruin relationships not because we stop loving, but because we don’t love ourselves enough.”
Oliver swirled his glass. “Sounds about right. I’ve learned a few things too. Like how empty a flat feels after work.”
“No one since?” I asked carefully.
“Tried. Never stuck. You?”
“Same.”
Silence. Petals drifted from the apple tree, catching the porch light.
“What if,” Oliver said slowly, “we tried again? Not jumping back in. Just… talking. No pressure.”
I met his eyes. Saw my own hesitation mirrored there.
“We could try,” I agreed. “Slowly. One step at a time.”
From inside, Margaret called us for tea. We exchanged a smile—conspirators, tentative hopefuls. Ahead lay a night of conversation, and perhaps, the start of something new. Or something old, rediscovered. Only time would tell.
