*Diary Entry – 15th June*
It all started with those words: “You should help—you’re my wife, not some stranger!” And this was spoken just a week before our anniversary…
The June morning began quietly. In their spacious London flat, Emma brewed coffee slowly, savouring the rich aroma that filled every corner. She cherished these rare moments of calm—before the world demanded more from her than she could give.
James, her husband, appeared in the doorway, polished as ever but with that familiar air of exhaustion. A curt “Morning” was all he offered before reaching for his mug, taking a sip, then dropping the news:
“Mum asked if you could take her to the doctor’s tomorrow. She’s got an early appointment.”
Emma froze. Tomorrow was the presentation she’d spent two weeks preparing. Missing it meant kissing her promotion goodbye.
“James, you know I can’t—”
“She’s my *mother*,” he cut in, his tone sharp with reproach. “You’re family, not some distant cousin. That’s what family does—helps each other.”
First, his mother’s request. Then a call from Sophie, James’s sister. She “desperately” needed a break from the kids—right when Emma had planned to visit *her* parents, whom she hadn’t seen in a month.
“Please, Emma,” Sophie pleaded. “You’re so good with them. You can see your parents another time.”
Again, Emma gave in. Again, no “thank you.”
A week later, James’s father rang. “Emma, my car’s in the shop. Mind if I borrow yours for a fortnight?”
“But how will I get to work? My meetings are across town—”
“Take the Tube. You’re young. We’re *family*.”
And once more—*you should*. Once more—*we’re close*.
Later, when she got the promotion and excitedly told James, dreaming of a holiday, he just shrugged. “Mum and Dad are renovating. Sarah’s wedding’s coming up. Now that you’re earning more, you’ll chip in, won’t you?”
Emma stared. “So we cancel *our* plans—again—for *your* family? Those were *our* dreams—”
“Well, who else will help? You’re not a stranger.”
The words echoed louder each time. In that *not a stranger*, there was no love—only obligation.
Then, a week before their anniversary, James crossed the line. “You *owe* it to my family. You’re my *wife*!”
Emma said nothing. The man before her didn’t see a partner, a loved woman—just a function, someone bound to fulfil everyone’s needs but her own.
That night, she didn’t sleep. By morning, she packed a suitcase. And left.
She returned to the tiny flat she’d bought with her own money years ago. It became her sanctuary.
Three months passed. James called, begging to meet. Said he’d “changed,” promised to do better.
“Too late,” she replied.
He never understood. It wasn’t the denied favours that broke them. It was him forgetting she was a person. Every trace of care, support, love—drowned in demands where she was only ever *obliged*.
He even forgot their anniversary.
That day, Emma bought herself a bouquet of roses, strolled along the Thames, and by evening, sitting on a bench near the water, she finally breathed easily again. Not because life was simpler. But because, for the first time in years, she lived *for herself*.
The next morning, she booked a ticket. One way—to Rome. Alone.
No more being convenient. It was time to be happy.
*Lesson learned: Love shouldn’t feel like servitude. If they stop seeing you, walk away—before you forget who you are.*
