**Diary Entry**
“You said you married me because I was ‘convenient’!” I still remember the way Emilys voice shooknot with tears, but with fury.
“Whats wrong with that?” Richard shrugged, adjusting his cufflinks as if preparing for battle.
He barely glanced at her. “Still in that old dressing gown?”
She froze, clutching her coffee cup. Steam curled up, scalding her fingers, but she didnt flinch.
“Hes convenient.”
“Yeah, convenient,” Richard snorted, straightening his tie in the mirror. “Like everything about you.”
Emily looked down. The coffee had stopped steaming. The surface was black, reflecting the ceiling like a broken mirror.
“Rich, you”
“What?” He jingled his keys. The wedding ring clinked against them.
“Never mind.”
The door slammed so hard the porcelain on the shelf trembled.
***
They met at work. She was the quiet accountant, her hair always in a messy bun. He was the confident manager whose laughter echoed down the halls. Richard courted her with roses, candlelit dinners, ordering medium-rare steak for her without asking what she liked.
“Youre not the type to fuss over little things, are you?” hed asked on their third date, smoothing a napkin over her lap.
“No,” Emily smiled, ignoring the warning bells.
“Good. My ex was always making scenes”
She brushed it off. Then came the wedding, the kids, the house. Everything as it should be.
Except when she tried on an off-shoulder dress, hed say, “Thats not your style.”
Or when she touched up her lipstick, hed mutter, “Why bother? Youre just at home.”
Once, she bought a new perfumelight, floral. He wrinkled his nose. “Smells cheap. Like something Linda from accounting would wear.”
She stopped wearing it.
For her birthday, he bought her a vacuum.
“The old one squeaks,” he said, watching her unbox it. “Youre always sighing when you clean.”
She thanked him. Then stared out the window until the kids called her to cut the cake.
But she stayed silent. He was a good husband, wasnt he? Didnt drink, didnt hit her, provided.
Wasnt that enough?
***
“Did you ever love me?”
The same evening. The same conversation. Richard looked away, as if checking the latch on the window.
“Of course Youre the perfect wife.”
“Thats not an answer.”
He sighed like she was asking him to explain the alphabet.
“Emily, why are you making a fuss? Were fine.”
“Fine?!” Her voice tremblednot with sadness, but rage finally breaking free. “You said you married me because I was ‘convenient’!”
“Whats wrong with that?” He shrugged.
She stared at him like she was seeing him for the first timehis tan from golf with colleagues, the crease between his brows from irritation, not worry.
“What about Jessica?”
His face twitched, like someone had pulled a hidden string.
“What about her?”
“You loved her.”
“Yes,” he admitted sharplymore feeling in that one word than in all their years together. “But she wasnt wife material.”
Something inside her snapped, quiet but final, like a broken heel. You could still walk, but never the same way again.
“So I was the obedient replacement.”
“Dont be dramatic,” he waved her off. “We have kids. A home. What more do you want?”
***
She hesitated.
Maybe he was right. Maybe love was a luxury, and family mattered more. Emily stood by the window, watching rain smear the glass. Her fingerprints marked the paneshed been standing there so often lately, as if waiting for the world outside to give her an answer.
And Richard Richard carried on like nothing had changed.
A week later, seeing her silence, he stopped pretending altogether.
“Pasta again?” He poked at his plate. “Couldve at least seasoned it.”
“You said you dont like spice,” she replied, her voice distant, like someone else was speaking.
“So? Jessica always”
Emily stood abruptly. The chair screeched, leaving a scratchanother mark in their home, another invisible crack.
“Go to Jessica, then!”
“Dont be daft,” he laughed, and it cut deeper than a shout. “Where would I go? Youre convenient.”
In that moment, she understood.
He wasnt trying to keep her. Not because he trusted her lovebut her obedience.
She noticed it in everything now.
How he no longer corrected her clothesjust walked past without looking. How his gaze slid over her like she was part of the furniture. How his “calm” days stretched into weeksno fights, no complaints. Just nothing.
And the worst part? That nothing was louder than any scream.
Clutching the kitchen counter, she realized: he wasnt even angry. He was waiting for her to accept it. Like shed accepted the vacuum instead of a gift. Like shed stopped wearing perfume. Like shed learned not to “fuss over little things.”
Then something inside her turned over.
Not pain. Not rage. Freedom.
Because if someone stops loving you but still gets angryyou still exist.
But when they stop even that
Youre already gone.
***
A month later, she filed for divorce.
Richard didnt believe it at first. He found her in the kitchen, packing the childrens things, and frozeas if she were a stranger.
“Youre serious?” For once, uncertainty crept into his voice.
“Yes.” She folded a tiny jumper without looking up.
“Over nothing?”
“Its not nothing,” she said softly. “Im not furniture.”
He laughedsharp, nervous. “Oh, here we go! You always overreact.”
Emily finally met his eyes. His face was painfully familiar, but she saw it differently nowthe tight lips, the narrowed eyes. He was angry, but not because he was losing her. Because his convenient world was cracking.
“Im not overreacting. Im tired of being convenient.”
He grabbed his keys. “Fine! You think Ill struggle? You cant even cook properly.”
She flinchedan old, familiar sting. Once, those words wouldve made her doubt herself. Now they rang hollow.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But someone disagrees.”
His face twisted. “Oh, I see! Youve got someone else. Look at youwhod even want you?”
The old ache tightened in her chest. She almost said, “Youre right, Im sorry,” like she had a hundred times before.
But then she realized: she didnt want to anymore.
“Me,” she said firmly. “I want me.”
Richard stared. He hadnt expected that.
“Youre mad. What about the kids? Dont they matter?”
She closed her eyes briefly. The kids Yes, she thought of them every second.
“Theyll learn what self-respect means,” she replied.
“Rubbish!” He waved a hand. “Youre selfish. Weve got a home, money And youll throw it away over nothing?”
She looked at him and suddenly understood: he truly didnt get it. To him, it *was* nothing.
“For youyes,” she said. “For meno.”
He turned away, tapping his keys against his palm.
“Fine. Youll regret this.”
On the day she collected the last of her things, Richard suddenly asked,
“You really think youll find someone better?”
She paused at the door, feeling the breeze on her face.
“Better?” She shook her head. “I dont know. But someone who sees *me*not an empty space.”
He said nothing.
She stepped outside, into air that smelled like rain and freedom.
***
Two years later.
Emily married a man who kissed her shoulder every morning, even when she grumbled it was too early. Who whispered, “Youre beautiful,” when she was in an old dressing gown, hair tangled, shadows under her eyes. Who once saw that same vacuum on sale, laughed, and bought her peonies insteadbecause they matched her lipstick.
She wore perfume again. Painted her lips. Chose off-shoulder dresses. And every time she caught her husbands admiring glance, warmth bloomed in her chestlike something long frozen had thawed.
And Richard?
She ran into him once at a café. Alone at a corner table, sipping coffee, staring at his phone. A worn photo of their kids lay beside himedges frayed, as if handled often.
She meant to walk past, but he looked up. Their eyes met.
And she sawnothing.
No anger. No longing. Not even irritation. Just emptiness, vast and quiet, like a window in a house stripped bare.
He nodded. She smiled. They moved on.
Later, wrapped in her husbands arms, Emily thought of
