21December
Ive been scribbling a shopping list for the Christmas feast when Edward shouted, Im leaving!
Leaving where? I asked, my mind still on the list of carrots, potatoes and a bottle of Prosecco.
Completely, he replied, his voice flat.
Completely what? And what about Christmas? I pressed, my throat tight.
He gave me a tired smile. What Christmas, Irene? When will you ever learn?
He said it slowly, as if he were reciting each syllable on purpose: Im leaving you. Completely. Ive found someone else and were having a baby. The words hit like a stone.
My heart hammered. All the years wed spent planning this holiday togetherdecorating the fir, picking out presents for the grandchildren, arranging a cosy dinner with friendsseemed to crumble in an instant. Id spent weeks polishing the tree, sorting ribbons, and writing down every ingredient wed need. The house was ready, the guests were booked, and I was still dreaming of a perfect New Years Eve, as we always do when the calendar flips.
At fifty, Ive always loved this season; its a tradition that binds us all, no matter where we live. The snow in London had been scarce lately, dulling the festive glow, but the December sales had already begun, and I, ever the careful planner, had bought all the gifts early to save both money and stress. There were earrings for my sisters, presents for the grandchildren, even a cosy wool sweater with reindeer for Edwardsomething hed coveted for years. It had cost me barely a few pounds, but Id done it gladly for the man I love.
Then, out of the blue, he announced he was leaving. I stared at him, numb. Where are you going? I asked again, the list now a blur.
Anywhere but here, he said. He slipped on his polished boots, the scent of the expensive cologneone Id given himstill clinging to his coat.
Before he left, he tried to explain. He talked about how hed been planning his departure for months, packing his things, and insisting I should understand and forgive him. He even mentioned a TV programme about men who walk away. I could only watch him, feeling as though the whole world had turned a shade colder.
The Christmas tree stood illuminated, the house smelled faintly of pine, and the kettle whistled on the stove. I felt my pulse slow, my breath shallow. Edwards voice echoed in my mind: Ive found someone younger, better, someone who can give me an heir. He laughed, as if the future of his lineage were a joke. He never mentioned that Id been the one earning most of our income, that the flat we shared was legally mine, and that Id kept our finances tidy for years.
He tried to make it sound like a grand adventure, as if his new lover would bring a child into our lives. Shell have a baby soon, he said, as if that were a consolation. I felt like a statue, frozen on the island of my own grief, unable to scream, to weep, to move.
Wed been married twentyeight years. A solid family, grown children, a comfortable homeby all accounts, a happy life. Yet something was missing, and it wasnt the money or the stability; it was the betrayal. I crossed Prosecco off my list, the drink Edward loved, and sank onto the sofa, emptiness swallowing me whole.
Three hours passed like a single breath. The phone rang, and it was my old friend Tamsin.
What’s happening? What are we bringing for the party? she asked.
Edwards left, I said.
Its true? she replied, surprised.
Everyone knows, Tamsin whispered, a hint of anger in her tone. Shed worked with Edward at the firm.
Did you know and keep quiet? I snapped.
Yes, she replied, voice shaking. Will you reconcile? What am I supposed to do then?
We fell silent, and the line went dead. I let the weight of the conversation settle, feeling a cold numbness spread through my veins.
I left the gathering early, walked home alone through the quiet, snowdusted streets of London. The city was decorated for the holidays, yet only a handful of passersby were out, each in their own bubble of celebration. As I trudged on, the gentle fall of snow seemed to soften the ache inside me.
Let them be happy, I thought. I wont let myself drown in this.
A year later, on 29December, the house was once again decked with tinsel and lights. I was preparing yet another list, this time to meet Tamsin for a modest New Years dinner. I was about to introduce a friend, Victor, who had just proposed to his partner. My life felt ordinary, as if nothing had changed.
A sudden knock at the door startled me. Edward stood there, a small backpack slung over his shoulder, cradling a bundle in his other hand.
Your? I began, eyes widening. Did you just bring a baby?
He chuckled lightly. What if I wasnt home?
Id have unlocked the door for you, I replied, surprised that the old banter resurfaced.
What if I changed the locks?
Would you still be kind? he asked, a faint smile playing on his lips. Will you let us in?
I hesitated, my heart pounding. I didnt want to usher a strangerespecially a childinto my home. Yet I stepped aside, and he slipped through the doorway. He placed the sleeping infant on the bed, his voice flat as he answered my question about the babys age: Five months.
Wheres the mother? I asked, utterly bewildered.
Shes moved on, he said quietly. She loves someone else now.
I stared at the tiny chest rising and falling, feeling a cold shiver down my spine. Why are you here? I demanded.
He tried to remove the childs tiny sweater, but I stopped him. You expect me to take this baby?
He seemed taken aback, the backpack now hanging uselessly by his side. I thought I could he stammered.
Fine, I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. You can stay for the night, but Im not taking the child with me.
He nodded, a look of relief crossing his face. He explained that hed been overwhelmed, that the babys mother had vanished two days ago, leaving a note that read, Dont look for me; Im tired of this. Hed taken a few days off work, hoping to sort things out.
I retreated to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, tears threatening to spill. The silence of the empty house pressed against me, and I laughed bitterly at the absurdity of it all. A crumpled tissue lay on the bedperhaps a sign that even Edward could shed a tear.
The next morning, I baked a lasagne for the holiday feast, the same one Victor loves, while Edwardnow a reluctant fathersat at the kitchen table, sipping his tea. The sweater with reindeers Id bought for him last year still sat on the back of his chair, a reminder of the plans that never came to fruition.
The year had turned, the snow had melted, and the world continued its relentless march. Im still here, diary, pen in hand, trying to piece together the fragments of a life that feels both familiar and irrevocably altered. I dont know what tomorrow holds, but I do know that Ill face it with the same stubborn resolve that has carried me through countless Christmases, heartbreaks, and quiet nights on a London street.
