*Diary Entry – December 15th*
The snowflakes drift past my window, delicate and silent. Twenty years of marriage, and like so many couples, we’ve hit a rough patch. Harry and I are no exception.
*We’ve been through so much—raising our son James, watching him grow into this stubborn, determined young man, just like me. Now he’s at university, living in student digs. I should call, see how he’s managing on his own. Knowing him, he won’t complain.*
Settled in my armchair, wrapped in a woollen blanket, I let my thoughts wander. Harry and I met at university—married by third year, parents by fourth. My mum helped so much back then; I never had to take time off. We scraped by in those early days, counting every penny. But bit by bit, things got easier.
Harry climbed the ranks at the firm—started as an analyst, now deputy director. I never had that ambition, happy enough as an office manager. And honestly, I didn’t mind. Harry made it clear early on: *”I could get you a job here, but working together? Not a good idea. Look at Peter—hired his wife, now they argue over every glance she thinks he gives the receptionist.”*
I agreed. Work is work. Family is family.
But trust—that’s harder. Harry’s a serious man, not one to chase women, but he’s human. Flirting? Harmless, he’d say. Me? I struggled with jealousy.
*That office Christmas party…* I still see it: Harry laughing, twirling his colleagues across the dance floor. Especially Lydia from accounts, in that fitted red dress, whispering in his ear. Meanwhile, I was stuck listening to Peter drone on about his holiday in Thailand.
That night, I snapped. *”You spent the whole evening ignoring me!”*
Harry just sighed. *”Emily, I’m tired of this. Your jealousy’s exhausting. Maybe we need time apart.”*
And like a fool, pride choking me, I agreed.
He packed a bag the next morning. The flat’s been too quiet since.
Now it’s nearly New Year’s. Mum called, cheerful as ever, expecting us for our usual family gathering in the Cotswolds—fireplace, long walks, Mum’s mince pies. How could I tell her Harry’s been gone six months?
So I phoned him. *”Mum’s expecting us. Can we… pretend? Just for them?”*
His voice softened. *”Yeah. Of course.”*
We met to shop for gifts—awkward at first, then easy, familiar. By the end, I was laughing like I hadn’t in months.
*”Fancy a cuppa?”* I asked when he dropped me off.
The way he hugged me then—sudden, tight—it undid everything.
Now, as snowflakes swirl outside, I realise: sometimes love means swallowing your pride. And maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to stitch us back together.
