**Diary Entry 15th June, 2024**
On the day of our golden wedding anniversary, my husband confessed hed loved another woman all his life.
“Not that one, Colin, not that one! I told you a hundred times!”
Margaret Ann waved her hand impatiently at the old record player. Colin, her husband, shrugged guiltily and returned to flipping through the neatly stacked vinyl records on the carved dresser.
“Which one, then? This? Sweet Caroline?” He glanced uncertainly at his wife.
“What do you mean, Sweet Caroline? Lavenders Blue is what I asked for! The children will be here soon, guests are coming, and weve got silence like its a funeral. Fifty years together, Colin! Do you even understand what that means?”
Colin sighed, his stooped shoulders sinking further. Hed always been quiet, and with time, hed withdrawn even more. Margaret had long grown used to his silencethat distant look in his eyes, as if he was always gazing past her, through the walls of their cosy little flat in Bristol. Shed put it down to age, to weariness. Fifty yearsthat was no joke. You learn to live with things.
Finally, the familiar tune began to play. Margaret softened at once, smoothing the creases from her champagne-coloured dress, a gift from their daughter, Claire. The flat smelled of freshly baked pies and vanilla. The large round table, draped in a white linen cloth, was already set with salad bowls and crystal glasses that caught the evening light. Everything was ready for the celebration. *Their* celebration.
“Thats more like it,” she muttered, more out of habit than irritation. “Go put on your proper shirt, at least. Dont embarrass me in front of the grandchildren.”
He nodded silently and left the room. Margaret stayed behind, looking over her handiworkthe polished hardwood floors, the starched curtains, the framed photographs on the walls. There they were, young and smiling in black-and-white, on their wedding day. She, slender and laughing with daisies in her hair. He, serious in his stiff suit, staring straight at the camera. Then a photo with their son, little Charlie in his arms. Another with grown-up Charlie and Claire on holiday in Cornwall. A whole lifetime. Fifty years.
It felt like yesterday. She, a city girl from London, had moved to a small village in Somerset to teach at the local school. Shed met hima quiet, awkward engineer. He never spoke sweet words or brought armfuls of roses. He was just *there*. Fixed the leaky tap, met her after work in bad weather, brought jars of his mothers pickled onions. His steadiness won her over more than any grand romance. And when he proposed, shed said yes without hesitation.
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. The children arrived with armfuls of flowers and noisy grandchildren. The house filled with laughter and chatter. Charlie, their serious son whod become a doctor, shyly handed them tickets to a spa retreat in the Cotswolds. Claire, their talkative daughter, recited a tearful poem shed written for the occasion. The grandchildren presented clumsy crayon drawings.
Margaret glowed. She sat at the head of the table beside Colin, feeling like a queen. Her life had been good. A wonderful husband, lovely children, a home full of warmth. What more could she want? She glanced fondly at Colin. He sat upright in his best shirt, smilingbut it was a stiff smile, and his eyes were far away again.
The evening flew by. The guests left, the children took the tired grandchildren home, and quiet settled over the flat once more. Only the soft hum of the record player remained.
“That was nice, wasnt it?” Margaret said as she cleared the dishes. “The children did well. And the grandchildren…”
Colin didnt answer. He stood by the window, staring at the city lights. Margaret approached and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Whats wrong, Colin? Tired?”
He flinched at her touch, then slowly turned. In the dim lamplight, his face looked unfamiliarhaggard.
“Margaret,” he began quietly, his voice trembling. “Margaret, I… I have to tell you something.”
Her stomach dropped. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“No,” he shook his head. “Ive carried this too long. Fifty years… its too much.”
She froze, dread coiling inside her.
“Carried what? Youre frightening me.”
He took a deep breath, his fingers nervously twisting the edge of the tablecloth.
“Today, our golden anniversary… maybe its right to say it now. So at least once in my life, Ive been honest.”
The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the clock.
“Ive loved someone else my whole life, Margaret.”
The words landed like stones in a deep well. She stared at him, uncomprehending. It couldnt be true. Some cruel, absurd joke.
“Who?” she whispered.
“Lydia,” he exhaled, and the namespoken with such aching tendernessburned worse than a slap. “Lydia Fairchild. You remember her? We were in school together.”
*Lydia Fairchild.* Of course she remembered. The bright, laughing girl with the thick blonde plait and dimplesthe prettiest in the village. Every boy fancied her. But shed married some army officer and left straight after graduation. Margaret had hardly seen her since.
“But… that was *school*,” she stammered, clinging to the thought like a drowning woman. “A childish crush…”
“No, Margaret,” he gave a bitter smile. “Not childish. I meant to propose after Id done my National Service. Wrote to her. When I came back… she was already married. Gone to Germany with her husband.”
As he spoke, her worldsafe, solidcrumbled. Fifty years of happy marriage shrivelled into one great lie.
“Why… why did you marry *me*, then?” Her voice cracked. Tears she hadnt felt were already falling.
“I was broken,” he said, almost to himself. “My mother said, Stop mopinglife goes on. Margarets a fine girl. Clever, decent. And I thought… why not? You *were* good. Right. I thought Id forget her.”
“And did you?” she cried, pain and fury clawing at her throat.
His silence was worse than any answer.
Margaret staggered back as if he were diseased. This stooped, grey-haired stranger wasnt her Colinnot the steady, quiet man shed shared fifty years with. He was a thief whod stolen her life.
“All this time…” she whispered. “Every time you said you loved melies? When our children were born, was it *her* you thought of? When we built this home, went on holidaysalways her?”
“I was grateful to you, Margaret,” he said dully. “I respected you. You were a wonderful wife, mother. I… grew to care for you. But it wasnt *that* love. Not the kind that makes your heart stop.”
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a battered old wallet. From a hidden compartment, he drew a tiny, faded photograph. Margaret looked over his shoulder. Lydia Fairchildyoung, windswept, radiantgrinned back at her.
“I carried this with me. Always.”
That was the final blow. Margaret turned and stumbled to the bedroom. She collapsed onto the bed, still in her party dress, and weptdry, soundless sobs that wracked her whole body. The world had lost its colour. Only emptiness remained, and one word: *fraud*.
She didnt know how long she lay there. Colin didnt follow. Perhaps it was bettershe couldnt bear to look at him. Memories swarmed like flies: planting the apple tree in the garden (“Well feed our grandchildren with these,” hed saidbut had he imagined Lydia beside him instead?). Their housewarming, friends shouting “Kiss the bride!”his lips touching hers while his eyes stayed distant.
She rose, faced the mirror. A wrinkled, hollow-eyed woman stared back. She traced the lines on her face, the grey streaks. Fifty years. Shed given this man everythingher youth, her love. And he? Hed simply lived beside her, cherishing another womans ghost.
That night, she didnt sleep. Colin crept in later, lying rigid on his side of the bed, careful not to touch her. A few inches of mattress between themand an ocean of betrayal.
At six, she rose automatically. Made tea, buttered toast. She moved like a clockwork doll. When Colin entered the kitchen, she didnt look up. Just set his cup down and sat opposite.
“What now?” she asked flatly.
“I dont know, Margaret,” he looked even worse than yesterday. “Im sorry. I shouldnt have told you. Maybe it was better”
“*Better?*” Her laugh was brittle. “Better to live a lie? Do you have any idea what youve done? Youve cheap
