**Diary Entry**
I never thought that Friday evening would change everything. Coming home from work, I called out as usual, “Darling, I’m home!” Silence. The house felt eerily still.
“Strange… He should be here by now,” I muttered, heading to the bedroom. Pushing the door open, I froze. William—my husband—was hastily packing his suitcase.
“William… What are you doing?” My voice barely a whisper.
“I’m leaving,” he replied, not even glancing at me.
“Leaving? Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s because of your father,” he snapped.
“My father? What does he have to do with this?”
None of it made sense. My marriage—built on love, patience, and warmth—was crumbling before me.
We met when I was twenty-eight. William was eight years older, confident, charming, experienced. Back then, I thought he was the one. Everyone around me—family, friends—kept insisting it was time to settle down. “The clock’s ticking,” they’d say. I began eyeing every potential suitor as a husband, and it scared them off.
But with William, it was different. Introduced by a colleague at a café, we hit it off instantly. He was attentive, kind. Then he found out I owned my flat, drove a new car, held a senior position in city administration, and had a wealthy father—suddenly, he became even more affectionate.
A year later, we had a lavish wedding—paid for entirely by my father. William didn’t object. In fact, he eagerly accepted a managerial role in Dad’s business.
At first, marriage felt like a dream—holidays abroad, dinners, gifts. But one thing nagged at me: William never paid for anything. I let it slide, then questioned, then pleaded.
“Why am I carrying everything alone?” I confided in a friend. “I want to feel cared for—like a woman should.”
William just laughed. “Sweetheart, don’t be silly. We’re fine. Stop fussing over trivial things.”
At work, he barely lifted a finger, spending hours on his phone, stashing his earnings in a private account. I had no idea.
Then I fell ill—seriously. A month in hospital. My parents visited daily. William? Rarely. Returning home, I was horrified. Filth, piled-up dishes, rubbish everywhere.
“You didn’t clean?!” I gasped.
“Why would I? That’s a woman’s job,” he shrugged.
“I was in hospital, William! And you expect *me* to clean now?!”
“Well, you’re home now. Get to it.”
Weak and shaking, I called a cleaning service. The doctor warned recovery would take a year. No thought of pregnancy yet.
A year later, the doctors gave us the green light. Trembling, I told William.
“Guess what? We can finally try for a baby!”
“Not now. I’m busy,” he grunted, glued to his console—a gift *I* paid for, now his life’s obsession.
Weeks passed. He kept brushing me off. Then came the blow:
“Listen, Emma… I’m leaving. And I don’t want a child with you.”
“*What* are you saying?!”
“I don’t love you. Never did. You were just convenient—flat, money, car. Now I’m done. You’re no use to me.”
“William, you can’t do this! After everything I’ve been through—”
“*Your* problems. Not mine.”
He snapped the suitcase shut, tossed in his console, and walked out.
I barely ate or slept, staring at nothing. Three days later, my frantic parents arrived. Dad, seeing me like that, was furious.
They took me to their countryside home. William was sacked that same evening. Soon, Dad’s contacts froze his accounts—every penny, gone.
Left penniless, jobless, homeless, William scraped together enough for a rented room—clueless what to do next.
A few months later, I started a new job. There, I met James. Not young, but honest, steady—someone who respected me from the start.
Six months later, a little miracle: two lines on a test. Tears, laughter, calls to my parents—and endless gratitude to myself for finally saying, “Enough.”
