**Diary Entry**
Everyone told Emily she was mad. And she knew it—truly, she did. But even with that awareness, she couldn’t bring herself to change a thing. Her love for her husband had faded long ago, quietly slipping away between the endless cycle of laundry, dinners, sleepless nights, and work. Once, she’d rushed home on wings of love. Now, she dragged herself there out of habit—exhausted, worn down, her eyes hollow. At forty, she looked fifty, and that wasn’t an exaggeration. Just the plain, hard truth.
The only one who truly pitied her? Her mother-in-law, Margaret. A no-nonsense woman, but with a heart too big for her own good. She’d come to London from a small village in Yorkshire for treatment unavailable back home. They’d put her up in the spare room, and she’d taken to helping with seven-year-old Amelia. The girl was too young to be left alone, and Emily was always at the office.
Her husband—oh, James. Lately, it was like he had some midlife madness whispering in his ear. Late nights, creeping in at dawn, smelling of sweet perfume he’d brush off as “a new cologne.” The whole building knew he had someone—no, several someones—on the side.
He’d even started mixing up names—calling her “Sarah” or “Lucy,” grinning when he caught himself, as if daring her to react. He didn’t bother hiding. He was *proud* of it. “Yeah, I’m that guy,” his smirk said.
It might’ve gone on forever if, one night at three, the phone hadn’t shrieked from the hall. Another woman, shrill and demanding: “Where is he? Why isn’t he answering?” Emily wasn’t stunned by the call—but by how easily this stranger had clawed into her home, her night, her life.
When James slunk in at dawn, hungover and sheepish, she lost it. His things went flying into the hallway with such force the cat bolted under the sofa. He spluttered excuses:
“Fine, I’m seeing someone. But I’m *not* leaving this family! We have kids! Mum’s ill. We’re *family*!”
Then Margaret stepped out of her room, voice sharp for the first time in years:
“If you want another woman, go. But *stay gone*. I’ll find my own place—just need to finish treatment. And the lad’s got exams. Enough with this mess. We *all* deserve better.”
Emily tried to protest—it was her house, her decision. But Margaret cut in:
“I won’t meddle, but while I’m here, I won’t watch this flat turn into some cheap affair. Pack your things. I’ll stay till the weekend, then sort my own room.”
Under his eldest son’s glare, James grumbled, stuffing shirts into a duffel bag. It was humiliating. Deserved, but humiliating.
After he left, Emily realised—for the first time in years—the house was *quiet*. No shouting. No midnight calls. No demands. Margaret visited weekly, bringing scones for Amelia and local news. And Emily? She woke without that old knot in her throat. Even the mirror seemed kinder.
Then, two months later—just as Margaret’s treatment ended and she packed for home—James reappeared. Flowers in hand, face all remorse. His words turned Emily’s heart to stone:
“Forgive me. She threw me out. I get it now. Give me another chance.”
Margaret, already in her coat, just looked at her:
“Your choice. I won’t interfere. But it’s time to think of *you*—not who you pity.” Then she took the kids and walked out.
Emily stood there, staring at the man who’d betrayed her a hundred times over. The man who’d been her family. Now, just a guest.
And for once, the decision was *hers* alone.
