Emily packed her things, her mind replaying the years of their marriage. She wanted to leave quietly, without explanations—just a note and then gone. It would be easier for both of them, she thought, folding clothes into her suitcase. But every item, every little thing, reminded her of the past. There was the jumper James had given her in their second year together. She’d criticised his choice, saying the colour didn’t suit her. James hadn’t argued, just tucked it away in the wardrobe. Yet she’d worn it secretly when he wasn’t looking. And now, it still lingered in her drawer.
She didn’t know what to do with these things. Throw them away? Leave them behind? She decided to box them up and seal them with tape, so old wounds wouldn’t reopen. But there was no tape at hand. She remembered seeing a roll in James’s study when she’d tidied last week. Stepping into his room, she pulled open the desk drawer and froze. Among the papers lay a notebook—not just any notebook, but a diary. Personal, with a worn cover, as if opened often.
Her hand reached for it. *If I’m already betraying him by leaving, what’s one more mistake?* she thought. Curiosity tangled with desperation. Maybe the answer was in these pages. Maybe there was another woman. Or maybe he regretted marrying her. Emily opened the diary, and her world tilted.
He wrote about her. *Her!* Page after page—her name, her habits, her smile. She sank into the chair, unable to look away. James remembered everything. Even that jumper she’d criticised. He described how hurt he’d been, how he’d decided never to give her gifts again to avoid upsetting her. *“Mum always said I got everything wrong. Now Em thinks so too,”* one entry read. Emily felt tears sting her eyes.
Further in, he wrote about his childhood. How his mother scolded him for laughing too loud, for joking, for “unnecessary” words. How she mocked his uneven smile, his fast speech. Once, he’d brought her a bouquet of autumn leaves, and she’d waved it off—*“Why bring me rubbish? Pick proper flowers next time.”* As Emily read, the image of a little boy, shamed for his honesty, for wanting to delight, rose before her. And without realising, she’d repeated the pattern, scolding him for that jumper.
But most of all, James wrote that he loved her. Still loved her. He took pride in her work achievements, adored watching her cook or sleep. It turned out, he lingered in the mornings just to watch her, afraid to wake her. He noticed how she frowned in her sleep, how she tugged the duvet closer. The last entry, written yesterday, shattered her heart. James dreamed of inviting her on a hike—to canoe down a river, like he’d done as a boy, when he’d been happy. But he feared she’d refuse, laugh at him like she had at his ideas before. *“I’ll probably stay quiet again,”* the entry ended.
Emily closed the diary, feeling the walls she’d built crumble inside. She was no longer the betrayer. She realised: without these pages, she’d never have truly known her husband. Their marriage had hung by a thread, but now she saw a way to save it.
The door creaked—James was home. She hadn’t noticed the time pass. He stepped in, surprised to see her still there.
“Em? You’re not at work?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.
She met him, the diary in her hands. James froze at the sight, but she didn’t let him speak.
“I’ll go,” she said firmly.
“Go where?” He was baffled.
“Hiking. Canoeing. I’ve already started packing.” She paused, inhaling deeply. “I’m sorry, James. I found your diary. I had to read it. It’s… the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re incredible. The best. I’m ashamed I ever thought otherwise. Can we start over? Talk, share, love—without fear?”
James stepped forward, pulling her into an embrace so tight she felt his heartbeat. He rested his chin on her head and murmured,
“I didn’t come back for lunch. I cleared my day. Wanted to talk, but I was scared you’d—” His voice wavered.
“Or,” he drew back, meeting her eyes shyly, “we could go shopping? Pick out a new jumper? Time for a fresh chapter, yeah?”
Emily nodded, tears of joy streaking her cheeks. She went to finish packing—not to leave, but to begin anew, with the man she was only just learning to truly know.
