**A Diary Entry**
The dim streets of Manchester guided Edward home after a long day at work. His mind was heavy with worry, a dull ache tightening around his heart. The windows of their fourth-floor flat were dark. *Where is she this time?* he thought as he stepped inside. The silence hit him like a blow. Before he could even kick off his shoes, there was a knock at the door. Their neighbour, face pale with concern, spoke words that shattered his world: “They took your wife, Charlotte, in an ambulance.” Edward froze, unable to believe what he’d heard. His life, full of mistakes and missed chances, collapsed in an instant, leaving only regret.
That thought struck him like thunder as he stood on the pavement. His legs nearly gave way. *How could I have been so blind?* he wondered, bitter laughter rising in his throat. It had all been so obvious, and yet he’d never noticed. At home, Charlotte waited—the woman he’d once loved but long since taken for granted. He imagined their usual exchange: her cold “You’re back?” as she turned away without glancing at him, then the obligatory “D’you want supper?” with not a trace of warmth in her voice.
Once, Charlotte had cooked with love—baking pies, collecting recipes, filling jars with homemade chutney. But in recent years, something had changed. She still cooked for the children when they visited, but for him? No effort at all. Her meals became tasteless, as if made out of duty rather than care. When he couldn’t stand it, Edward fried eggs or boiled pasta in silence, swallowing complaints. She ate without thanks. Her indifference gnawed at him, but he held his tongue to avoid quarrels.
She hadn’t always been like this. Long ago, her kindness had warmed him—her gentle embraces, the way she’d curl against him as if sharing something precious. But those moments faded. Now her affection felt mechanical, a chore she resented. When had it started? Perhaps the nights he’d spent at the pub while she waited alone. Or the time he hadn’t picked her up from the hospital after their youngest was born because he was “celebrating with the lads.” He’d brushed it off—just a bit of fun—but the wounded look in her eyes had stayed with him.
Charlotte grew quiet, withdrawn. She flinched at his comments, retreating to the bedroom as if avoiding him. He’d fume: *I’ve a right to speak my mind!* But her silence cut deeper than shouting. Around the kids, she’d brighten—fussing, cooking, laughing. With him, only ice. *Who’s she fooling?* Life slipped by while their marriage became a hollow routine.
Edward had stopped going out long ago. He worked as an engineer, earned well, never strayed. But Charlotte didn’t seem to care. She made her own money, had her independence. Why didn’t she leave? For the children? They were grown now. He’d stopped trying to understand, telling himself, *If this is how she wants it, fine.* But deep down, he longed for a proper life—for a wife who greeted him with joy, who still loved him.
Now, the truth sank in: she hadn’t loved him. Maybe never had. Edward remembered wondering why a clever woman like Charlotte had chosen him. Maybe he was just convenient—tall, decent-looking, good for strong children. *She knew they’d be handsome,* he thought bitterly.
Inside the dark flat, the silence choked him. *Where is she?* The knock came again. Their neighbour wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Edward… the ambulance took Charlotte an hour ago.”
He sprinted through the streets, tears blurring his vision. For the first time in years, he prayed:
“God, don’t take her. How will I survive? Please, save her. If she lives, I’ll make it right—I swear it. I’ll go to church, I’ll do anything!”
But he never saw her alive again. The hospital said her heart gave out in the ambulance. His world crumbled. Days passed in a haze. Family, friends, the children spoke, but he barely heard them. One thought drummed in his skull: *I never said sorry.*
Now Edward lives alone. The kids offered him a room, but he refused. He visits the little church nearby often. There, in the quiet, amidst the scent of incense, it almost feels like Charlotte’s there. The walls seem to understand his grief. He gazes at the stained glass and whispers, “Forgive me for not seeing you.” But there’s no answer—only silence, his constant companion now.
**Lesson learned too late:** The cost of taking love for granted is a debt you pay in regret.
