**Diary Entry**
*Sunday*
*”We didn’t waste time—we were just taking the long road to our happiness,”* said Emily, nestling closer to Thomas.
I woke up this morning, stretching lazily under the warm duvet. It’s Sunday—no rush, no obligations. Just the slow pleasure of doing nothing.
When my husband died, everyone expected me to collapse with grief. So I wore the mask of the devastated widow. Work gave me compassionate leave, assuming I needed time to mourn.
To the world, we were the perfect couple. But what goes on behind closed doors is no one else’s business. Did I pity him? Of course—as I would pity anyone gone too soon. But not as my husband. Just a man who left too early.
My eyes fell on the framed photo on the bookshelf. Enough. Time to put it away. I’d kept it out before—for appearances. When visitors came, they’d glance at it, murmuring condolences, expecting tears.
But waking up every day to his smug, self-satisfied face? No more. I tossed the duvet aside, picked up the frame, and studied his polished, charming grin. How many women had fallen for that smile? I smirked.
*”Had your fill, did you? Think I’m weeping over you? Dream on. Goodbye.”* I wedged the frame between books. *”There. That’s where you belong—not in my life.”* I dusted off my hands and headed for the shower.
***
*Years earlier*
I walked out of the exam hall last, the corridor empty. Thomas was waiting—just an ordinary bloke I’d met during admissions.
*”How’d it go?”* he asked.
*”First-class!”* I couldn’t hide my grin.
*”Looks like we’re both in.”* He smiled back.
*”Still need to wait for the lists…”* But I knew I’d made it.
*”Formality. You’ve got the grades. Fancy celebrating?”*
He looked nervous, waiting. My parents were at work, no more revision—why not?
*”Let’s go.”*
We wandered the city, ate ice cream, then caught a film.
At uni, we ended up in different groups. I didn’t mind, but Thomas was gutted. He’d sit by me in lectures whenever he could.
One day, he was late. Daniel Whitmore slid into his seat last minute. I almost said it was taken, but the professor—stern, unyielding—started his lecture.
*”Thomas is glaring daggers at me,”* Daniel whispered, amused.
I glanced back. Thomas sat at the rear, sulking like a kicked puppy.
*”Gentlemen—and young lady—if you’d rather chat, leave.”* The professor’s voice froze me. The whole room turned. I hunched over my notes.
*”Brilliant. Now we’re marked for life,”* Daniel muttered, and we stifled giggles.
We got thrown out anyway. Sat in the corridor until Daniel suggested the canteen. *”Waste not, eh?”*
He was clever, witty—even the tutors respected him. I loved his confidence.
Afterwards, Thomas warned me. *”Be careful with him. He’s a charmer, a proper flirt.”*
*”Jealous?”* I teased.
*”What if I am?”*
*”Thomas, it’s just lectures. Don’t fuss.”*
But one lecture became many. I fell hard. Soon, we were inseparable—everyone called us a couple. My parents adored him. Daniel had a way with words, didn’t matter if you were eighteen or eighty.
We weren’t rushing marriage—until I got pregnant. I told him, bracing for anger. But he just shrugged.
*”Fatherhood. That’s a thought. But how? We’ve no money. And uni… Maybe wait a bit? It’s early yet.”*
I agreed. But then the nausea hit—constant, relentless. In the end, I had the abortion. A baby? With exams? We had plans.
Thomas stayed a friend. He lent me notes when I missed lectures. Always there, quietly.
After fourth year, we married. Daniel’s father was a bigwig—landed us jobs straight out of uni. Daniel climbed fast. I never questioned it. His dad’s influence, not mine.
Then one lunch break, I walked into his office. There he was, tangled up with his secretary—bold, smirking, unashamed. She strolled past me, chin up, as if *I* were the intruder.
At home, I exploded.
*”What’s the fuss? Men stray. If you think otherwise, you’re naive. You’re my wife. I love *you.* She’s nothing.”*
He sacked her. Hired someone plain, mousy. I dropped it.
Leave him? For what? Someone worse? At least Daniel was successful. We played the perfect couple.
Then the call came—some “well-wisher” informing me Daniel had a child. Again, I threatened to leave.
*”Calm down. A kid changes nothing. I love *you.* No divorces. You’re stuck with me.”*
I should’ve gone then. But fear held me. I still loved him. Weak, maybe—but he liked that. Two alphas would’ve clashed. He never once blamed me for our childlessness.
Daniel came home on time, gave me freedom—I never used it. He booked solo holidays for me. By then, his father retired. Daniel took over.
At the seaside, men swarmed. I knew the game—married, lying about it. Their attention flattered at first, then grated. I’d return relieved, to our lavish flat, our polished life.
Daniel would sigh, *”Wish I could loaf on beaches like you.”* And we both knew—he hadn’t been working *all* that time.
To outsiders, we were goals. But in parks, watching families, I ached.
I consoled myself—every marriage has cracks. Ours wasn’t the worst. Roommates, really. Most couples are. Love fades after a decade. You coexist.
We might’ve carried on. Then the police called. They’d *”found”* Daniel at the cottage.
*”Found?”*
The “well-wishers” had stopped calling years ago. Either he’d slowed down or gotten sneakier. I’d pretended all was fine. Easier that way.
*”Heart attack. The woman with him called an ambulance… then vanished. We’re investigating sudden deaths…”*
Sympathy poured in. I played the grieving widow. His father hushed it up—no headlines about the singer he’d been with.
The thought revolted me—dying mid-affair. Maybe that was it. I refused to know. I grieved publicly, politely. Privately? Nothing.
***
This morning, I sipped coffee, sunlight pouring in. Free. Free of Daniel, his lies, the charade of marriage.
The doorbell rang. Another pity visit, I assumed.
*”Yes?”*
The man looked familiar—but I couldn’t place him.
*”You don’t remember?”* He feigned hurt. *”Thomas. Thomas Whitmore.”* He smiled. *”Your birthday’s soon. I’m in town for work—thought I’d pop by. Daniel at the office?”*
Then it clicked. Thomas—older, professorial in glasses. He taught at Oxford now.
*”Come in. Daniel died two months ago.”*
*”What?”*
*”Heart attack. Don’t just stand there.”*
Over tea, he said, *”You’re holding up well. Not the weeping widow. Kids grown?”*
*”None. I had an abortion at uni. Daniel had two—by different women.”*
*”You’re so… calm about it?”*
*”Everyone thought we were perfect. Maybe we were. It stopped hurting long ago.”*
*”He cheated? And you stayed?”*
*”That’s marriage.”*
*”No. Not all.”* He looked furious.
*”Oh, please. Were *you* better?”*
*”If I had been, you’d have married *me.”*
I stared.
He started visiting often—”work trips,” he claimed. Once, he proposed.
*”We’re not kids. I’ve always loved you. If I stepped aside then… you’re free now.”*
*”Thomas, no. I’m done with relationships. I want peace.”*
He dropped it. But he kept coming.
A year passed.
I finally visited the cottage—left untouched since Daniel’s death. The neighbour must’ve cleaned up. I aired the place, wandered the garden. Spring buds unfurled. Fresh. Alive.
Still, I’d sell it. Too much for one.
That evening, a car pulled up. Thomas, arms full of flowers. For once, I was glad to see him. Checked my reflection,As he handed her the bouquet, she realized—after all the years, the heartache, the waiting—she’d finally found the love she deserved, and this time, she wouldn’t let go.
