**Diary Entry**
I never thought marriage could feel so lonely. Fifteen years together, and somehow, weve become strangers under the same roof.
“Youre late again, Eleanor!” Victor tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table, his voice tight with irritation. “Third time this week. Ive been waiting two hours for dinner.”
“There were queues at the supermarket,” Eleanor replied, hurriedly unpacking the shopping onto the kitchen counter. “Besides, you couldve cooked something yourself. It wouldnt kill you.”
“Its not about the dinner,” Victor stepped closer, studying her face. “Its about how youre always *somewhere else* these days. Work running late, endless shopping trips, sudden meetings with friends. And now your phones off? I rang you three times.”
Eleanor sighed, shoulders sagging. “Battery died, probably. You know how old that phone isit barely holds a charge anymore.”
Victor watched as she methodically put the groceries away. Fifteen years of marriage had sharpened his eye for detailsthe slight tension in her movements, the way she avoided his gaze, the careful way she chose her words. Something was off, and that *something* had been gnawing at him for months.
“Fish or sausages?” Eleanor asked, as if nothing was wrong.
“Doesnt matter,” he muttered, retreating to the living room.
He turned on the telly, but his mind was miles away. There was a time when Eleanor would rush home to meet him after work. Theyd chat over dinner, sharing stories, planning weekends. Now? Now there was this invisible wall between them. Real, even if neither of them spoke of it.
Half an hour later, she called him to eat. They sat in silence, exchanging only the usual remarks about the weather and rising prices.
“Mum phoned today,” Eleanor finally said. “She asked if were coming to the cottage this weekend.”
“Whatd you tell her?”
“That we probably would. You dont mind, do you?”
Victor shrugged. “Why not? Been a while since we got out of the city.”
After dinner, Eleanor disappeared into the bathroom while Victor cleared the table. Her handbag sat on the kitchen chairbulky, with too many pockets. He hadnt meant to rifle through it, but as he reached for her purse to put it on the hall shelf (an old habit of theirs), something hard clattered onto the wood.
A phone. But not the battered old thing shed had for years. A sleek, black, brand-new one.
Victor froze, staring at it in his palm. A second phone. His wife had a *second phone*.
Numbly, he sat at the table, turning the device over in his hands. Fragments of memory surfacedEleanor stepping away to take calls, her odd insistence on carrying her bag everywhere, even to the balcony, the unexplained absences.
The screen was dark, locked with a passcode. He didnt try guessing. Instead, he slipped it back into her bag exactly where hed found it.
When Eleanor returned, he was staring blankly at the telly.
“Are you alright?” she asked, eyeing him.
“Fine. Just tired,” he said, avoiding her gaze.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. Beside him, Eleanor breathed steadily, while his mind spiralled. Why did she need a secret phone? Only one answer made sense, and it shattered him. *An affair*. Secret calls, messages, meetings. Was this how fifteen years together ended?
The next morning, as they got ready for work, he studied her for any sign of guilt. But she was the same as evermaking tea, buttering toast, packing her bag
“Working late again today?” he asked, forcing his voice light.
“Doubt it,” she replied. “But Ill call if I do.”
*Which phone will you call from?* he nearly asked, but bit his tongue.
At work, he couldnt concentrate. All he saw was Eleanor whispering into that second phone. *Who to? About what?* A colleague joked he looked like a man whod just discovered his wife was cheating. Victor laughed weakly, unaware how close to the truth it was.
By lunch, he cracked and rang his old mate Paul, who worked for a private investigation firm.
“Listen, Ive got a weird situation,” Victor began when they met at a café near his office. “I found a second phone in my wifes bag. One shes never mentioned.”
Paul nodded knowingly. “And you think shes having an affair?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” Victor gave a bitter laugh. “Why hide a phone if theres nothing to hide?”
“Dont jump to conclusions,” Paul said, sipping his tea. “Get the facts first. I could help, but you dont really want to hire a PI to tail your own wife, do you?”
Victor shook his head. “No, thats too far. Ill handle it myself.”
“Then just ask her outright,” Paul suggested. “Honestys usually the best fix.”
But Victor wasnt ready for that. What if his suspicions were right? What if she admitted it? Could he forgive her? Or would they split, divide the house, start over at 43?
He came home early, only to find Eleanor wasnt back yet. He checked her wardrobe, rifling through pockets, handbags, boxesnothing suspicious except the missing second phone, which she mustve taken with her.
He sat and waited. At seven, the key turned in the lock.
“Youre home already?” Eleanor frowned, seeing him. “Everything alright?”
“We need to talk,” Victor said grimly.
She tensed, sensing trouble. “About what?”
“About your second phone,” he blurted. “I saw it yesterday when I was clearing up. It fell out of your bag.”
Eleanor went pale. Slowly, she sank into the chair opposite him.
“I see,” she murmured.
“Thats *it*?” Victors voice rose. “Fifteen years of marriage, and you Who is he? How longs this been going on?”
“What?” She stared at him, bewildered.
“Your *lover*, obviously!” Victor nearly shouted. “Why else would you need a secret phone? Planning a coup?”
To his shock, Eleanor didnt deny it, didnt yell back. She just sat there, staring at her hands. Then, slowly, she pulled the black phone from her bag and placed it on the table.
“See for yourself,” she said quietly. “The passcodes our anniversary.”
Victor hesitated, then typed in the numbers. The screen unlocked. He braced for texts from another man, photos, proof of betrayal. Instead, he found a drawing app, pictures of landscapes, and a single contact: *Bloomsbury Press*.
“What is this?” he asked, confused.
Eleanor took a deep breath. “Its for my side project. One thats actually making money now.”
“What project?”
“I write, Victor,” she said softly. “Childrens books. For three years now. At first just for fun, then I started sending them to publishers. Six months ago, one got interested.”
Victor stared, trying to process it. “*Youre* a writer? And you *hid* it from me?”
“I was scared youd laugh,” she admitted. “Remember what you said about my poetry at uni? Amateur drivel, I think were your exact words. And then, when they started considering my stories I didnt want to jinx it. Thought Id tell you when the first book came out.”
Victor flushed, remembering that cruel remark, tossed off in front of friends.
“So *this* is where youve been disappearing to?” he asked, still half-disbelieving. “Writing stories?”
“Sometimes the library, sometimes cafésanywhere quiet to work,” she nodded. “The phones for the publisher and notes. I didnt want work calls interrupting. Plus, the drawing appsI sketch illustrations too.”
Victor scrolled through drafts, character sketches, emails with an editor.
“Why not *tell* me?” he asked, hurt cutting through the relief.
“At first, I feared the jokes. Then, failure. And when it actually started working I wanted it to be a surprise,” she gave a small smile. “The book comes out in two months. I was going to give you the first copy for our anniversary.”
Victor sat in silence. All his suspicion, jealousy, dreadit had all been for nothing. His wife wasnt cheating. She was writing *childrens books*.
“Can I read one?” he finally asked.
Eleanor blinked. “Seriously?”
“Of course,” he moved closer. “I should know what my wifes brilliant at, shouldnt I?”
She hesitated, then opened a file and handed him the phone.
“Its about a little hedgehog afraid of the dark,” she said shyly.
As Victor read, a smile crept onto his face. The story was sweet, simple, yet deeper than hed expectedexactly what a good childrens tale should be.
“This is wonderful,” he said honestly. “Youre really talented, El.”
“Really?” She searched his face. “Youre not just saying it?”
“I swear,” Victor took her hand. “Im proud of you. And Im so sorry I thought well.”
“That I was cheating?” Eleanor gave a dry chuckle. “Fifteen years, and *now* you turn jealous. Funny, that.”
“Forgive me,” he kissed her fingers. “Ive been an idiot.”
“We both have,” she sighed. “I shouldve just told you instead of all this secrecy.”
They talked for hours that night. Eleanor showed him her stories, her sketches, her plans. And Victor listened, amazed at how much he *hadnt* known about the woman hed married.
“You know,” he said later, as they lay in bed, “in a way, Im glad I found that phone. Its like meeting you all over again.”
“Im glad you know,” she smiled. “No more sneaking off to cafés. I can write at home now.”
“On one condition,” Victor pulled her close. “I get to read your stories first. Before any editors.”
“Deal,” she laughed. “My personal critic. Just no amateur drivel, alright?”
“Promise,” he said solemnly. “Only honest, constructive feedback.”
That night, he lay awake, thinking how close hed come to ruining everything over baseless fear. Beside him, Eleanor slept peacefullyhis wife, whod turned out to be far more remarkable than hed ever realised. And he vowed to pay better attention, to *really* know her from now on.
Two months later, on their anniversary, Eleanor gave him the first copy of her booka beautifully illustrated collection of stories. Inside the cover, shed written: *”To Victormy harshest critic and dearest love. Thank you for believing in me.”*
And it was the best story hed ever read.
