**From My Diary**
I’ve always been independent, even as a child. Mum and Dad worked long hours, so I’d come home from school, heat up soup, eat, and do my homework—sometimes even cooking pasta myself. I’d been doing it since Year One.
In sixth form, a few uni students came to our school for teaching placements. Among them was Denis Stevens, tall and serious, glasses perched on his nose, always in a grey suit. The lads called him “the swot” and tried to rile him, but by the end of his lessons, they were hanging on his every word. He taught history differently—asking us to think, to argue, to imagine how events could’ve unfolded otherwise. The boys adored it. For once, someone cared what they had to say.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I started reading history books just to join in. One day, I dared to share my thoughts. Denis praised me, saying society might’ve been different if my ideas had shaped history—but back then, change was nearly impossible. “History can’t be rewritten,” he said, “only the textbooks, with the right emphasis.”
Then his placement ended, and my interest in history faded. Until one day, walking home, I spotted Denis hurrying toward me. “Hello, Emily,” he said. He *remembered* my name. My heart leapt. “Are you headed to school? Lessons finished hours ago,” I mumbled.
“I wanted to see *you*.”
My face burned. He walked me home, asking about school, friends, my plans. “Not history? I thought you’d taken a liking to it. I’ve got books you might enjoy.” My breath caught. Was he inviting me over? Not Olivia Bradford, the prettiest girl in class—but *me*, Emily Clarke. “I’m studying economics,” I muttered, “but I’d love to borrow them.”
“Next time, I’ll bring some—my pick, if that’s alright.”
*Next time?* My pulse raced. “Will there… *be* a next time?” I blurted.
“Of course. If you want.” His smile softened him, made him boyish. I realised he wasn’t much older than me.
“Call me Denis. We’re not at school anymore.”
At my doorstep, I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. As he turned to leave, I found my voice: “When will I see you again?”
He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number.”
He texted days later. We met a few times before exams swallowed us—mine for A-Levels, his at uni. After graduation, he came to see me. I’d kept our meetings secret until I finally told my friends. They were *furious* with envy. None of them had a proper boyfriend, let alone an older one.
At uni, we kept dating. When Mum found out, she panicked, demanding to meet him. Denis—serious, dependable, a *teacher*—won them over. No vices, a steady job. Mum relaxed. I floated on cloud nine.
We married during my third year. Kids could wait. Denis loved order: jars aligned, books stacked, towels hung straight. He gently chided me for leaving things out. At first, it felt like a game—I mimicked him to please him.
Then came the day he walked into the bathroom after me. “Emily,” he said, icy calm, “I asked you to wipe the floor.” A few droplets gleamed on the tiles.
“I will next time. You’re about to shower anyway.”
“Do it *now*.” His grey eyes chilled me. He didn’t need glasses to see—just to look older.
I grabbed the mop. “Hang the towel properly.” He pointed at it, crumpled on the edge of the tub. Under his gaze, I smoothed it onto the rack, shame scalding me. Like a scolded child.
Plates had to be stacked by size, laundry folded precisely. I’d scan the kitchen before leaving, adjusting every fork. If I forgot, he’d make me redo it. No daytime affection—just his manicured hand warding me off.
I realised I didn’t know him. Or love him. I’d loved the *idea*—an older man, a teacher, the envy of my friends. The shock came when I learned he got manicures, buffing his nails, trimming cuticles. Since when did *men* care so much?
I was tired of living by his ruler. If this continued, I’d go mad. I nearly broached it—then found out I was pregnant. Nearly thirty, and finally, a baby. Maybe he’d change.
He worsened. Obsessed with my diet, my routine. He found a pizza box in the bin and accused me of poisoning our child. If I craved “junk,” I ate it in secret.
With a newborn, order was impossible. Denis never shouted—just pointed at stray babygrows, messy tables, unwashed dishes. Even alone, I couldn’t relax. The second Theo slept, I’d scramble to clean, dreading his return.
Mum praised my newfound tidiness, adored her son-in-law more. When Theo started walking, I trailed him, tidying toys. The final straw? Denis checked my phone.
“You don’t *trust* me? This is humiliating!” I sobbed.
I packed my things and left for my parents’. He followed. Mum took his side. “He doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheat, provides. Millions of women would *kill* for this! What more do you want?”
“I *can’t* live with him. He’s a robot. Sex on schedule, lights off. I *hate* him!”
Dad surprised me. “Let her stay. Look at her—she’s a shadow.”
Denis visited, pleading, bringing toys. Theo hid behind me. Mum nagged constantly. Life here was no easier.
As Theo’s nursery start loomed, I decided to leave. Denis threatened to take him—claiming I was unfit. I filed for divorce. It dragged, but I won. A job in another county offered a flat. Dad backed me again.
“Go alone at first,” Mum insisted. “Theo will get sick in nursery. Settle in, then fetch him.”
I agreed. Called daily, ached when he was ill. Bought a used car to visit anytime.
On holiday leave, I drove home, dreaming of a month with Theo before bringing him to me. At a motorway café, I stopped to eat. Returning, I found a flat tyre. Tears prickled. Cars zoomed past—until a blue BMW pulled up. A young man stepped out.
“Need help?”
He changed the tyre effortlessly. I offered money.
“Don’t bother. Heading to Manchester? Same as me.”
“How *can* I thank you?”
“Dinner?” He was *young*—obviously.
“I’m older, married, with a child.”
“Just dinner,” he grinned. “Give me your number.”
I hesitated, but gave it. Two days later, he called.
“Where are you going?” Mum eyed my dress.
“Nowhere.” I changed into a cotton one. Not a date—just gratitude.
“You look stunning,” he said at the restaurant. “How’d your husband let you out?”
I laughed, light and free—something Denis never allowed.
We talked. I admitted I lived away, was here to fetch Theo. Aidan ordered me wine, stuck to juice. He asked me to dance. Slow music played; no one else moved. I didn’t care.
I knew he fancied me. But he was too young. A fling. Yet why not? At thirty-four, I craved this fleeting warmth.
We kissed outside. “This means nothing,” I told myself. “I’ll leave, forget.”
Mum pounced the second I got home. “You’re *dating*? Abandoning Theo? You threw away a good man for *this*?”
Denis visited next day, stiff in his suit. Theo dragged me to play, sparing us conversation.
“He’s *better* than you’ll ever find!” Mum hissed after.
Aidan called. I said we were even. Then, as I put Theo to bed, the doorbell rang.
Mum glowered. “Your *boy* won’t leave.”
Theo spotted the huge box in Aidan’s hands—a toy railway. He refused bed, ecstatic as tracks snapped together, trains chugged. Mum watched, lips tight.
At the door, Aidan kissed me before I could speak. “I’m not letting you go.”
I pushed him away. “You’ve got a life here. I’ll be in a tiny town.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I refused, but he kept visiting. Theo adored him.
One night, I overheard Dad: “Let her be. She’s *happy*. Don’t ruin it.”
Aidan’s mum resisted at first. “He’d leave for you,” she admitted. “Don’t make him regret it.”
I quit my job. Driving back, I stopped at *that* café. Sat, reminiscing—then found *another* flat tyre.She stared at the flat tyre, then burst out laughing, realising she wouldn’t trade this messy, unpredictable love for anything—not even perfection.
