**Diary Entry – 12th March**
He caught me by surprise when he walked in earlier than usual—just past half twelve. I was rushing to get our drowsy youngest daughter into her coat when the door swung open. Our son stood beside me, arms crossed, scowling. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
“Stop right there. What on earth are you doing with the kids at this hour?” he snapped, irritation lacing every word.
“We’re leaving. I can’t do this anymore,” I said, meeting his gaze. Once, I’d looked into those eyes with adoration. Now, all I saw was anger, disdain—nothing but ice.
“Go on then, bugger off!” he shouted, not caring how the kids flinched. “Who’d want a washed-up woman with two brats in tow? Bloody idiot.”
“We’ll see,” I replied, and without another word, stepped out.
The first year of our marriage had been a dream. Edward was attentive, charming, confident—all my friends envied me. Only my mother had whispered, “You’ll have your hands full with that one.” But I’d brushed it off. Love would conquer all, wouldn’t it?
Then our son was born, and the cracks appeared. Silent bitterness festered. Then I found out—another woman. My world crumbled, but I stayed. For the children, for the illusion of a family. Then came our daughter, followed by Edward’s “business trips,” his hollow excuses, his distance. I knew, but I stayed quiet. Not because I was blind—because I was terrified. Where would I go? How would I manage alone?
I smelled perfume on his shirts, heard unfamiliar names slip out. Once, he even called me “Claire.” But I said nothing. Like a machine, I carried on—mornings, school runs, my till job at Tesco. Pennies for pay, a cramped flat, no help. But I bore it.
Then, one evening, a bouquet appeared at my till.
“For you,” the customer said shyly. “Just… wanted to see you smile.” Andrew—the quiet man who always bought the same things: bread, sausages, coffee.
“Andrew. You finishing up? Let me walk you home.”
I refused. Again. And again. I couldn’t fathom why anyone would care about a woman with two children. My own husband hadn’t called in a year. Yet this stranger—he asked, he listened, he cared.
One evening, I finally snapped.
“I have two kids!”
“Brilliant,” he grinned. “So, zoo this weekend then?”
I was stunned. He taught my son chess, took my daughter sledging. Ran to Boots at midnight when they were ill. I tried pushing him away—he only laughed.
“Think I’d let a woman like you slip through my fingers? Marry me?”
Five years on, I’m Mrs. Andrews now. Four kids—two his, two mine. And all the neighbours say how alike they look to him.
“They really are starting to take after you,” I whisper at night.
“Course they are. I love them. They’re part of you—so they’re part of me.”
