30April2025
Dear Diary,
Ive been watching my daughter Emilys love life unfold like a neverending soap opera, and I feel compelled to put pen to paper before I lose the thread completely.
It began with a simple misunderstanding over flowers. Dave, are you serious? Emily had snarled, holding a bouquet of roses. Ive told you a hundred times I love peonies, not these gaudy roses. Do you even listen to me? Her voice was sharp, the kind that makes a mans cheeks flush and his heart tumble. I could see the guilty, bewildered look in Daves eyes as he stood in the doorway, his shoulders shrinking.
Sorry, love, he murmured, Next time Ill bring peonies. Emily set the roses on the kitchen table without a sniff, though they were lovelydeep burgundy, heavy with dew.
I remembered the first time Emily brought him home. He was tall, broadshouldered, with calloused hands from his apprenticeship as a civil engineer. She stared at him as though he were a new wonder of the world, and my husband George gave me a approving nod behind her back: A solid bloke, sensible and serious.
The first year and a half were blissful. Dave drove Emily to Brighton for weekend getaways, gifted her jewellery on anniversaries and even on ordinary days, and listened patiently to her endless stories about colleagues and old school friends. Yet, as time went on, I began to notice a shift. Emily started talking about Dave in a dismissive tone, sometimes with a bored sigh, even a hint of contempt: Dave brought over a cake, can you believe it? Im on a diet. He keeps calling, clinging like a bad habit. Shed turn his presents over as if they were a tax bill rather than gestures of affection.
By the second year the arguments started, though it was Emily who usually sparked them. Shed be bored beyond belief and launch her accusations in the evening. Do you even love me, Dave? Does it matter? Youre always off somewhere, leaving me here alone. Maybe youve found someone else? Dave would apologize, swear his innocence, and shed cool off after a day or two, forgiving him with a gracious smile. Hed bring flowers, a book shed mentioned, tickets to the West End. The peace would returnuntil the next spasm.
Excuses were plentiful. I didnt comment on your photo, I was late because of a meeting, I answered too fast, must have been on my phone. Every little slip became a trigger. Enough! shed shout. Were done! The phrase echoed far too often. Each time, Dave would be the first to beg forgiveness, and Emily would pauseone day, three, a weekbefore thawing again.
One quiet afternoon I asked, gently, Emily, do you truly love him, or is it just convenient? She rolled her eyes. Mum, stop with the questions. Of course I love him. He can be a pest, but Im tired. Five years slipped by in that strange dance of passion, scandal, breakups, and reunions. Daves hair started to grey at the temples, though he hadnt even turned thirty. He lost weight, smiled less, but he held on. Hold on to what? Hope, perhapshope that someday things would settle, that life would become simpler, calmer.
In the sixth year he finally proposed. The ring was a slender gold band with a modest, clear diamond. Dave had booked a table at The Ivy, arranged for a string quartet, and even rehearsed his speech on a scrap of paper, which he read aloud, blushing. Emily said yes as if shed been offered a slice of cake with her teapleasant, but not particularly exciting. She snapped a photo for Instagram, called a few friends, and posted it with a simple caption.
George clasped Daves hand warmly. Welcome to the family, lad. Officially now. Mom, Margaret Whitaker, hugged him like a mother protecting her newborn.
Wedding preparations kicked off at lightning speed. Emily took charge: a dress from a boutique in Chelsea, a photographer with celebrity credentials, live orchids on each table. Dave nodded at every request, signed off on budgets, and tried his best to make the day flawless for his future wife.
A month before the big day everything collapsed. Whats this? Emily snapped at the printed menu. Rainbow? Have you really chosen Rainbow? We wanted White Garden on the river terrace! Not some cheap eatin! Dave tried to explain that the venue had great food and they’d already tasted it. Theres no slot for us on our datetheyre booked already. Emily threw the menu to the floor, her voice shaking. Its over! Im done with this wedding! She stormed out, assuming Dave would come crawling back with apologies, as he always had before. This time, however, he simply turned his back.
The next morning Dave arrived to collect his belongingscharger, razor, his favourite sweater. Are you serious? Emily asked, disbelief in every word. Youre just leaving? He zipped his jacket, looked at her for a long, unreadable moment. Be happy, Emily. Really. And he walked out.
I watched as Emily waitedfirst a week, then twoher phone silent, no messages, no calls. Pride held her back from reaching out. Dave had always been the one to return first; he never did this.
A month passed. Maybe hes ill? On a business trip? Emily fretted in the kitchen, glancing at the empty chair. Mum, say something! I said, stirring the stew. You let him go, hes gone. I didnt let him go! I just She choked on the words.
Two months later, a colleague, Sophie from accounts, mentioned over lunch, I saw Dave yesterday with a girl. They were laughing, holding hands. Emily dropped her fork. Who? I dont know. Some new girl, seems cute. That night Emily dug through Daves social media. His profile was publicno new photos, but a new friend appeared: Katherine Soloman, a tidy profile with landscapes and cats, a smiling face of a twentysomething woman.
Emily stared at Katherines page until three in the morning. I saw the change in my daughter: confidence draining, eyes turning cold, weight slipping in an unhealthy way, dark circles under her eyes, irritability on the brink of hysteria.
This is all his fault! she shouted at us. Six years of my life, and he just walks away for some noname girl? You threw him away first, Margaret whispered. Thats different! How is it different? Emily could not answer.
The year slipped by, a painful blur. Emily tracked Daves life through his phone: barbecue parties with Katherine, concert photos, a caption Moved in!a shared flat. A picture of a ring on a delicate finger, captioned I said yes! with three hearts. Margaret stumbled upon that post while scrolling, seeing Katherine beaming, Dave smiling, eyes bright as they once were.
Good on you, Dave, Margaret thought, finally.
Emily tried new romances. Igor lasted four months before he quit after a row over a birthday party shed missed. Sergey lasted two before he fled when Emily made a scene at his workplace. All men are the same! she muttered, slumping at the kitchen table. George chewed his steak in silence, Margaret poured tea, both watching their daughter stare at her phone, scrolling through strangers happiness.
At a family dinner, Emily revived an old argument. Dave at least was patient. With other blokes, you cant say anything without them getting offended. Maybe its not them? George suggested quietly. Dad, what are you on about? Just saying, the third bloke this year has left. Strange coincidence. Emily flared, So its my fault, then?
Silence settled over ussometimes louder than any words.
Later, I thought about how to explain the obvious to my daughter: love isnt a video game where you can hit save and return to a comfortable checkpoint. Patience isnt endless. Manipulation corrodes trust slowly, like rust eating metal.
Emily blamed the world, waiting for a knight in shining armour to endure her whims forever. I washed the last plate, tucked it away, and watched her again, phone in hand, scrolling through pictures of Dave and Katherinehappy, affectionate, a life she once imagined.
Thirty years ago I cradled a tiny infant and swore to protect her from every storm. Yet Emily has chosen her own isolation. To find true happiness, shell have to change, or shell never know what it feels like to be a wife and a mother.
Tonight I close this entry with a thought that has settled over me: love without respect is a house built on sand; it may stand for a while, but the moment the tide turns, it collapses. The lesson Ive learned, and hope Emily learns too, is that we must respect ourselves enough to walk away before we become the ruin we feared.
Margaret Whitaker.
