**Diary Entry**
He came home and, without even taking off his shoes or coat, blurted out: “We need to talk.”
There he stood, still in his coat, eyes wide as if hed seen a ghost. “Emma,” he said, voice unsteady, “we need to talk properly.” Then, without missing a beat, he took a deep breath and confessed, “Im in love.”
*Well then*, I thought, *so it beginsthe infamous midlife crisis. Welcome to the club.* I gave him a careful once-over, something I hadnt done in yearsfive, six, maybe even eight?
They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but for me, it was my entire life with *him* that flashed by. We met the modern wayonline. I shaved three years off my age; he, ever the optimist, added three centimetres to his height. Against the odds, we somehow matched each others criteria and found one another.
I cant remember who messaged first, but his opening line was free of vulgarity, laced with light self-deprecation, which I liked. At thirty-three, painfully aware of my dwindling prospects in the “dating market,” I knew my placenot *quite* at the back of the queue, but close enough. For our first date, I opted for understated elegancerose-tinted glasses, a trendy bralette, homemade biscuits in my handbag, and a battered copy of *Wuthering Heights* tucked under my arm.
To my surprise, it went smoothly (*never underestimate the power of good lingerie*). Our romance unfolded quickly, full of enthusiasm. After six months of steady courtshipand relentless parental pressurehe proposed. We introduced our families, opted for a small wedding, and, terrified of second thoughts, booked the first available date.
Life was goodor at least, it seemed that way. Our marriage was temperate, no fiery passion, but stable and respectful. Isnt that happiness?
He shed his early “sensitive romantic with golden hands” act within weeks of the wedding, settling into his true selfa practical, hardworking man in well-worn joggers. As for me, the tight corset of “mysterious, intellectual homemaker” loosened gradually until pregnancy sped things along. A year later, I exhaled in relief, wrapped myself in a cosy dressing gown, and never looked back.
The fact that neither of us mourned our discarded personas only confirmed Id made the right choice. Raising two children tested our marriageour little ship rocked violently at timesbut it never capsized. When storms passed, we sailed smoothly again, supported by doting grandparents and steady careers. We travelled, pursued hobbies, and carved out time for each otherliving, by all accounts, an utterly average life.
Twelve years in, he had never once strayednot even flirted. Not that I was the jealous type. The idea of him attempting sweet talk was laughable; early on, hed admitted defeat and adopted his own method of praisewidening his eyes like an overexcited barn owl. Over time, I learned to interpret his entire emotional spectrum through those round, expressive eyes: wild admiration, quiet approval, stunned disbelief, utter confusion.
So when he stammered, “How did you guess it was a *rat*?!” I nearly choked.
He fumbled in his pocket and produced a small, greyish-brown creature with translucent pink ears and beady black eyes. “Look at her! So soft, so perfect she reminds me of you.”
I stared at him, at the rat, at their mutual adoration, and felt an absurd wave of relief. Of all the things he couldve fallen forit was this. A rat that looked *just like me*.
