**Diary Entry – A New Beginning**
I’m leaving, Andrew… I’ll be blunt—I’ve fallen in love. With him, I feel alive again: How a man found happiness after his wife’s betrayal.
Andrew drove along the old, potholed road that twisted through the countryside, past villages where every oak and hedgerow whispered of his childhood. He hadn’t been back in nearly a decade. Not since his parents passed. There’d never been time—business, contracts, meetings. He’d built, climbed, hustled. But now, for the first time in years, he was free. The weight was gone. It felt like breathing after a storm.
The car jolted over ruts, tyres skidding on the muddy verge where wildflowers crowded the edge. A hare darted across the lane, vanishing into the nettles. Andrew pulled over, stepped out, and inhaled the damp evening air. The sky burned scarlet, as if the world had paused just for him—to let him know a new chapter had begun.
Behind him lay thirty years with Margaret. She’d been younger by twelve—vibrant, striking, full of laughter. He’d adored her, spoiled her, built a life for her and their children. But as the kids grew and he buried himself in boardrooms and blueprints, Margaret had slipped away. Then, one evening, she stopped coming home at all.
At first, he ignored the rumours. Friends tiptoed around it; he brushed them off. Until the day Margaret looked him in the eye and said, *“I’m leaving, Andrew. I’ve fallen in love. He’s free, he’s young, and with him, I feel alive again. I’m sorry, but this isn’t my life anymore.”*
No apologies. No explanations. And he didn’t fight her. He let her keep the London flat, divided nothing, walked away clean. Pride mattered more than scraps of the past.
He still ran the firm, but he left the city behind—moved back to the cottage he’d once built for his parents. A quiet place, real. Nestled by the woods, smelling of pine and fresh bread. No pretence, no noise. Just sky, earth, and memory.
The loneliness was fierce at first. Old colleagues rang less; London felt like another planet. But slowly, he returned to himself. Dawn walks through barley fields, fishing in the forgotten pond, autumn mushrooms in the forest, fireside evenings—it all mended him. Margaret became a distant dream, no longer sharp enough to sting.
Then, one day at the village churchyard, he spotted the dog. Thin, mournful, with dull eyes.
*“That’s Baxter,”* a neighbour said. *“Belonged to Eleanor. After she died, he wouldn’t leave her grave. Still waits.”*
Andrew crouched down. *“Come on, Baxter. Fancy a walk?”*
The dog hesitated, then stood. And followed.
They were inseparable after that. The locals noticed. *“Must be a good man, that Andrew. A dog knows.”*
Come winter, they cleared snow together—Andrew with a shovel, Baxter playfully snapping at flakes. His daughter promised to visit soon with the grandchildren. He strung up fairy lights, dusted off the old sled. Baxter would romp with the kids; the cottage would echo with laughter again.
Gazing at the horizon, where sunlight cut through the clouds, Andrew realized—for the first time in years—he wasn’t aching or restless. Just… content. No revenge, no grand plans. Just a man, his dog, and the quiet certainty that he’d found his way home.
**Lesson learnt: Sometimes the heart heals where it began.**
