**Diary Entry – 21st October**
It was our golden anniversary—fifty years of marriage. I laid the table with care, lit the candles, and served his favourite roast chicken. Everything was meant to be perfect, like something from a film—half a lifetime together, celebrations, holidays, raising children, arguments and making up. I thought we had weathered it all and come out stronger. I believed we loved each other. At least, I know I loved him.
We’d agreed to spend the evening alone. The children and grandchildren sent their congratulations—messages, calls, warm wishes—but we only wanted peace. I needed to feel we weren’t just growing old side by side, but still truly *together*.
Andrew sat across from me. He looked calm, but there was something odd in his eyes. I assumed he was just moved—fifty years is no small thing. I raised my glass with a smile and said,
*”Andrew, thank you for all these years. I can’t imagine my life without you.”*
He lowered his gaze. The silence between us grew heavy, pressing against my chest. He didn’t answer. Just sat there. Then he looked up—and in his eyes, I saw something unfamiliar: deep sorrow, more guilt than pain.
*”Margaret… there’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve carried all this time…”*
My heart froze. Fear shot through me. A thousand thoughts raced—was he ill? Had something happened?
*”I should have told you sooner. But I couldn’t. Now I realise you deserve the truth. I… I never loved you.”*
Time seemed to stop. The air left my lungs, my hands trembled, tears welled up. I stared at him, waiting—surely, he’d say it was a joke. But he didn’t.
*”What?”* I whispered, already feeling the tear roll down my cheek. *”How can you—fifty years. We’ve lived fifty years together.”*
*”I respected you. You’re a kind, wonderful woman. But I married for duty. Back then, it seemed the right thing. Everyone did. I never meant to hurt you. Then the children came, life went on, years passed. I just… existed.”*
He wouldn’t look at me, couldn’t.
The words I’d built our life on were suddenly a lie. Every morning cup of tea, every late-night talk in the kitchen—now they felt like scenes from someone else’s story. We buried his mother together, celebrated our grandchildren, holidayed in Cornwall. Had none of it meant love?
*”Why tell me now?”* My voice shook, but I forced the words out. *”Why not ten, twenty years ago?”*
*”Because I couldn’t lie anymore. It was killing me. And you deserved the truth—even if it’s late.”*
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. He slept on the sofa. For the first time in fifty years, I realised—I didn’t know him. Worse, I didn’t know *myself* beside him.
In the days that followed, I avoided him. The grief was unbearable. He tried to talk, insisting that despite everything, I’d been his family—that he stayed because he couldn’t leave, because he didn’t know how to live without me.
*”Margaret, you were the closest person to me, even without love. I could never walk away,”* he said one evening.
The words were like a plaster over a wound—not a cure, just a dull relief. I don’t know how to live with this truth. How to sit at the same table again. How to face tomorrow.
But I do know this: those fifty years weren’t just his lie. They were *my* truth. My life. My motherhood. My love. Even if all I got in return was presence—not passion, just endurance. Even if I was lonely inside, outwardly I lived, loved, built, believed.
I don’t know if I’ll forgive. But I won’t forget. And maybe, one day, I’ll accept it. Because, no matter what he says—those years are *mine*. My time. My heart. My story.
