**Diary Entry – September 12, 2023**
That night, Edward came home a little earlier than usual—the clock had just struck half past twelve. He was about to change into his nightclothes and settle into bed when he found his wife hurriedly bundling their sleepy youngest daughter into her coat. Beside her stood their son, scowling, arms crossed. Edward had no idea what was happening.
“Hold on. Where do you think you’re going at this hour? Why are you dragging the kids out?” he snapped, irritation sharp in his voice.
“We’re leaving. I can’t live like this anymore,” Charlotte answered calmly, meeting his eyes. Not so long ago, she had looked at him with adoration. Now, all he saw was anger, disgust, ice.
“Fine, bugger off then!” Edward bellowed, not caring how his shouting frightened the children. “Who’d want a washed-up woman with baggage anyway? Just a stupid cow!”
“We’ll see about that,” Charlotte said and stepped out the door without a backward glance.
The first year of their marriage had been like a fairytale. Edward had carried her in his arms—charming, attentive, handsome, confident. All her friends were jealous. Only her mum had muttered under her breath, “You’ll have your hands full with that one.” But Charlotte waved her off, certain it would be different for her. They loved each other, after all.
Then their son was born, and the fights began. Resentment crept in, unspoken words festering. Then came the affair. Her world shattered, but she stayed—for the children, for the sake of keeping up appearances. Another pregnancy, a daughter. Then Edward’s frequent “business trips,” his flimsy excuses, his cold distance. Charlotte knew, but she kept quiet. Not because she was blind, but because she was terrified. Where would she go with two children? How would she survive?
She smelled other women’s perfume on his shirts, caught fragments of names, once even being called “Lottie” by mistake. Still, she said nothing. She moved through life like a robot: mornings, children, work. She’d taken a job as a cashier at the supermarket. Minimum wage, a tiny flat, no help. But she endured it—because she had to.
Then one evening, someone placed a bouquet neatly on her till.
“This is for you. Just… thought you deserved a smile,” said the customer, slightly flustered. Thomas, a regular who always bought the same things—bread, sausages, coffee.
“Thomas. Are you off soon? Let me walk you home.”
She refused. Then again. And again. Charlotte couldn’t believe anyone would care about a woman with two kids. Her own husband hadn’t called in over a year. Yet this stranger asked, listened, cared.
One day, she finally broke.
“I have two children!”
“Lovely,” he grinned. “Let’s plan a trip to the zoo this weekend, then.”
She was stunned. But he taught her son chess, showed her daughter how to ice-skate. Ran to the chemist at midnight when one of them fell ill. Charlotte tried pushing him away, but he just smiled.
“You really think I’d let a woman like you slip through my fingers? Will you marry me?”
Five years later, Charlotte is now Mrs. Thompson. They have four children—two together, two from her first marriage. The neighbours all say how much the kids take after Thomas.
“They really are starting to look like you,” she whispers to him at night.
“Course they are. I love them. They’re part of you. So they’re part of me.”
*Sometimes, the right person doesn’t just mend your broken pieces—they make you whole again in ways you never expected.*
