**Diary Entry**
*December 22nd*
*”Why are you looking at me like that? Fine, yes—I don’t want kids. Not yet. Aren’t we fine just the two of us?” Emma said to her husband.*
The first rays of sunlight crept through the kitchen blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow across the floor, the wall, the table. One sliver landed on James’s face, slicing across his bloodshot eyes. He flinched, shielding them even behind closed lids, and dragged his stool away from the assault of morning light.
Like a sulking child, the sun retreated behind the tower block opposite, plunging the kitchen into gloomy dimness. Then—the sound he’d been waiting for. The click of the front door. James stiffened, holding his breath, listening to the careful shuffle of bare feet on the hallway tiles. A pause. Then footsteps, creeping closer.
*”James? You’re awake?”* Emma’s voice was laced with surprise, maybe even guilt.
*”Where were you?”* His voice was rough, lips dry.
She hesitated. If she’d answered straight away, he might’ve believed her. But that pause—that bloody second of thought—told him everything.
*”Went for drinks with Sophie. Then… stayed at hers. Sorry, I was out of it—must’ve dozed off.”* A lie.
*”You could’ve called.”*
*”I was drunk, like I said. Didn’t want to wake you.”* Her tone was smoother now, rehearsed.
*”You hoped I’d be asleep and not notice you were gone.”*
*”What’s your problem? So I had a night out—big deal! Am I not allowed one bloody evening for myself?”* Her voice rose, shifting from defence to attack.
*”One evening?”* James turned to face her.
Emma blinked and looked away.
*”I’m tired. We’ll talk later,”* she muttered, turning to leave, but James grabbed her wrist and yanked her back. She yelped, stumbling onto his lap before scrambling up, wrenching at his grip.
*”Let go—you’re hurting me,”* she hissed.
He tightened his hold.
*”You’ll break my wrist! Let go!”* Her eyes flickered between contempt and despair.
*”It was him, wasn’t it? Tell me.”* His fingers dug into her skin.
*”Fine! Yes! Happy now?”* she spat. *”God, I hate this. I hate you.”* She jerked free, and James let her go—too suddenly. Emma staggered back, elbow smacking the doorframe. A sharp cry.
*”Get out,”* he said, eerily calm.
*”James, just—”*
*”Get out. Go to him, for all I care. Come back for your things later.”* He slumped against the wall, tilting his head back, eyes shut.
*”Fine. I’m going.”* Emma stormed off, rubbing her bruised elbow. *”You’ll regret this. I’d rather walk out than spend another minute looking at your miserable face!”* Her voice echoed from the hall.
*”Just sod off,”* James snarled. He snatched his mug from the table and hurled it at the wall. Porcelain shattered. The front door slammed.
He turned back to the table, dropping his head into his hands, motionless.
The sun peeked out again, painting stripes across his hunched shoulders as if in comfort.
Hours later—or minutes, he couldn’t tell—he stood, showered, shaved, swallowed black coffee. Too early for work, so he walked, leaving the car behind, hoping the chill would shake off the fog in his head.
All day, he waited for her call. Maybe she’d say he’d pushed her into a lie. Maybe she’d been at Sophie’s all along. Maybe—
But his phone stayed silent.
By evening, drizzle misted the air, clinging to his skin. He trudged home, foolishly hoping to find her there. But the flat was hollow.
He swept up the mug shards, dug out a half-finished bottle of whisky, and downed a glass. His stomach lurched in protest. He waited for the burn to fade, then collapsed face-first onto the sofa.
***
They’d married three years ago. Emma—bright, chaotic Emma—had charmed him with her laughter, her recklessness. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but she had *something*. At first, it was effortless. The world bent around her wherever she went.
She hated cooking. He didn’t mind. Coffee and toast for breakfast, lunch at the pub near work, takeaway or wine-fuelled gatherings with friends in the evenings. Weekends were lazy lie-ins, brunch bleeding into dinner at mates’ houses. It suited him. Until—one by one—their friends paired off, had kids.
James broached the subject. *What’s a family without children?* Emma waved it off, joking they’d have *years* of nappies and tantrums ahead.
*”What’s that look for? I don’t want kids. *Yet.* Aren’t we happy as we are?”*
The topic irked her. She’d storm out for hours. James would pace, then go after her. Once, after an argument, he stopped at a café—and saw her. At a corner table. With a man.
He approached. Emma faltered for a split second before pasting on a smile. *”This is an old schoolmate! Ran into him by chance. James, meet…”*
The bloke offered a handshake. James hesitated but took it. The conversation died. The *schoolmate* made excuses and left.
After that, Emma changed. Less laughter, fewer outings. Twice, she came home late—*”Just out with the girls.”* But most of her friends were knee-deep in parenthood.
And last night—she hadn’t come home at all.
***
James woke at 3 a.m., half-convinced she’d returned. He reached for his phone. *Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she was at Sophie’s.*
No. *Men don’t beg.* He chucked the phone aside.
The bathroom mirror showed a wreck—stubble, bloodshot eyes, creased clothes. He gulped tap water, finished the whisky, crashed back into bed.
Weeks blurred. He visited mates, but their wives eyed him warily now. Without Emma, his jokes fell flat. Friends tiptoed around the truth. *”Mate, she’s been seen with…”*
*”Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”*
*”Would you’ve believed us?”*
He stopped going out.
One evening, craving a smoke (he’d quit years ago), he ducked into a corner shop. Ahead of him, a plump woman fumbled with bags at the till.
*”Just you today?”* the cashier asked.
*”Ethan’s poorly. Left him home while I dashed out.”*
James bought his cigarettes, then spotted her outside—limping, struggling with the bags. He offered help. She brightened. *”I’m just round the corner.”*
Inside her flat, a boy—maybe five—peered from the doorway.
*”Is that my dad?”*
The woman—*Margaret*—laughed nervously. *”No, love. This kind man helped with the shopping.”*
James froze. If he’d ever imagined a son, he’d picture *this* boy. Big eyes, delicate limbs, tiny shorts.
*”Tea?”* Margaret offered.
They drank it in the kitchen. Ethan—chatty, curious—soon lost interest and scampered off.
*”His parents?”* James asked.
Margaret sighed. *”My daughter works in London. His father… well.”* Her voice dropped. *”She was attacked. In school. Got pregnant. Wanted an abortion. I said no. Now? She provides, but… she can’t love him. Not really.”*
*Jesus.*
Days later, James returned with toys, sweets. Ethan lit up. They built a toy fire engine together. As he left, Margaret squeezed his hand. *”You’d make a good father.”*
Three weeks on, she called—Ethan was ill. Could James sit with him while she fetched medicine?
The boy was feverish, small in his bed.
*”When I was sick, my mum gave me warm milk and honey,”* James said.
*”Yuck,”* Ethan croaked.
*”Hated it too. But it worked. Want a story?”*
He read until Ethan dozed off. Gazing at him, James’s chest ached. *What if Emma had—?*
He dozed too, waking to a young woman—*Claire*—staring down at him. Ethan’s mother.
*”Who are you?”*
Margaret bustled in, flustered. But Claire’s tone was sharp. *”Don’t come back. He’ll get attached, and you’ll vanish.”*
She wasn’t wrongAs the first snowflakes of winter settled on the windowsill, James slipped the engagement ring back into his pocket—this time, not for Emma, but for the quiet hope blooming in Claire’s wary eyes and Ethan’s trusting smile.
