**Diary Entry 20th June, 2024**
On the day of our golden wedding anniversary, my husband confessed hed loved another woman his whole life.
*Not that one, Colin! I told you a hundred times!*
Margaret sighed irritably, waving a hand at the old record player. Colin, her husband, shrugged guiltily and resumed flipping through the stack of vinyls neatly arranged on the oak sideboard.
*Which one, then? This? Sweet Caroline?* He glanced uncertainly at her.
*Sweet Caroline? I asked for Fields of Gold! The children will be here any minute, the guests are arriving, and weve got silence like its a ruddy funeral. Fifty years, Colin! Do you even understand what that means?*
Colin exhaled, his stooped shoulders sagging further. Hed always been a quiet man, retreating into himself more with age. Margaret had long grown used to his silence, to that distant gaze that always seemed to look past her, through the walls of their cosy little terrace in Manchester. Shed put it down to fatigue, to age, to his nature. Fifty yearsno small thing. You learned to live with it.
At last, the familiar melody began. Margaret softened immediately, smoothing the creases in her champagne-coloured dressa gift from their daughter, Emily. The room smelled of Victoria sponge and vanilla. The dining table, draped in crisp white linen, was already set with salad bowls and gleaming crystal glasses catching the evening sun. Everything was ready for the celebration. *Their* celebration.
*There. Thats more like it,* she muttered, more out of habit than irritation. *Go put on your good shirt, will you? Dont embarrass us in front of the grandkids.*
He nodded silently and shuffled out. Margaret stood alone, surveying her handiwork: the polished wooden floors, the starched curtains, the framed photographs lining the walls. There they were, young and bright-eyed, in a black-and-white wedding portraither, slender and grinning with a crown of daisies in her hair; him, solemn in a stiff suit, staring straight ahead. Then another of them cradling baby James. And again, years later, the four of themJames and Emilyon holiday in Cornwall. A whole life. Fifty years.
It felt like yesterday. She, a city girl, had moved to a tiny Yorkshire village for her first teaching job. Met him, the local engineershy, a bit awkward. He didnt spout poetry or bring armfuls of roses. He just *was there*fixing her leaky tap, meeting her after work in the snow, bringing jars of his mothers pickled onions. His steadiness won her over more than any grand romance ever could. And when he proposed, she said yes without hesitation.
The doorbell snapped her from her thoughts. The children arrived, arms full of flowers and noisy grandchildren in tow. The house erupted in laughter, chatter, chaos. James, their serious sonnow a doctorsheepishly handed them a voucher for a spa retreat. Emily, their chatterbox daughter, tearfully recited a poem shed written. The grandkids thrust clumsy drawings into their hands.
Margaret beamed. Seated at the head of the table beside Colin, she felt like a queen. Her life had been good. A devoted husband, wonderful children, a home filled with lovewhat more could she want? She glanced at Colin fondly. He sat straight-backed in his best shirt, smiling. But it was a strained smile, and his eyesthey were far away again.
The evening flew by. Guests left. The children bundled the sleepy grandkids into the car. The house fell quiet again, save for the soft hum of the record player.
*Lovely evening, wasnt it?* Margaret said, clearing the dishes. *The kids did us proud. And the grand*
Colin didnt answer. He stood by the window, staring at the city lights. She touched his shoulder.
*Whats the matter, love? Tired?*
He flinched, turned slowly. In the dim lamplight, his face was unfamiliarhaunted.
*Maggie,* he began, voice trembling. *I I have to tell you.*
*What is it?* Her stomach dropped. *Is it your heart?*
*No.* He shook his head. *I cant carry this anymore. Fifty years thats too long.*
Margaret froze. Her hands fell to her sides. A cold dread slithered through her.
*Tell me what?*
He took a shaky breath, eyes averted. His fingers fidgeted with the tablecloth.
*On our golden anniversary seems right. To be honest. Just once.*
A silence, thick and heavy. The clock ticked.
*Ive loved another woman my whole life, Maggie.*
The words hung there, like stones dropped into a well. She stared. It couldnt be. Some cruel, absurd joke.
*What?* she whispered. *Who?*
*Lydia,* he exhaledthe name alone, spoken with such tenderness, burned worse than a slap. *Lydia Harris. Remember her? We were in school together.*
Lydia Harris. Of course she remembered. The girl with the golden plait and dimplesthe belle of the village. Every lad fancied her. But shed married some army bloke and left right after graduation. Margaret had hardly seen her since.
*But that was schoolboy stuff,* she stammered, clinging to the thought like driftwood. *A crush*
*No, Maggie.* He gave a bitter laugh. *Not a crush. I meant to propose after I finished my apprenticeship. Wrote to her. When I came back she was already wed. Gone to Germany with her husband.*
Her world crumbled. Fifty years of marriage, shrinking into one great lie.
*Then why marry me?* Her voice cracked. Tears she hadnt felt spilled over.
*I was broken,* he murmured. *Mum said, Stop moping. Life goes on. Maggies a good lass. And I thought why not? You *were* good. Steady. I thought Id forget her.*
*Did you?* The words tore out of hera mix of pain, fury.
His silence was answer enough.
She recoiled. This wasnt her Colin. Not the quiet, dependable man shed shared fifty years with. This was a stranger whod stolen her life.
*All this time* she choked out. *Every I love youa lie? When the children were bornwere you thinking of *her*? When we built this house, went on holidaysalways?*
*I was grateful to you.* His voice was hollow. *You were a wonderful wife, mother. I cared for you. In my way. But it wasnt *that* love. Not the kind that steals your breath.*
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a battered wallet. From a hidden compartment, he drew a tiny, faded photo. Lydiayoung, laughing, hair wild in the wind.
*Ive carried this. Always.*
That was it. Margaret stumbled to the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed in her fancy dress, and weptdry, soundless sobs that shook her whole body. The world had no colour, no sound. Just emptiness, and one word: *fraud*.
She didnt know how long she lay there. Colin didnt follow. Maybe that was for the best. Memories swarmedplanting the apple tree in the garden (*Well feed the grandkids from this,* hed saidhad he imagined Lydia beside him?). Their housewarmingfriends cheering *Kiss the bride!*, his lips on hers, that same faraway look in his eyes.
She rose, faced the mirror. A wrinkled, tear-streaked woman stared back. Fifty years. Shed given him everythingher youth, her love. And hed just lived beside her, keeping another woman in his heart.
That night, she lay awake. Colin crept in later, perched on the very edge of the bed, careful not to touch her. A chasm between them.
Morning came. She rose at six, brewed tea, buttered toastautomatic motions. When Colin entered, she didnt look up. Just set his cup down.
*What now?* Her voice was flat.
*I dont know.* He looked wretched. *Im sorry. Maybe I shouldnt have told you.*
*Better to live a lie?* She laughed humourlessly. *Youve ruined it all. Every memory.*
*No!* He stiffened. *The childrentheyre real. The grandkids. This home. What we built*thats* real.*
*And love? Was that real?*
He bowed his head.
She turned to the window. A new day. A street sweeper clearing
