**Diary Entry**
I didnt get to finish hanging up the phone before I heard her voice.
I was standing by the window, watching the thick London snow blanket the city. The call with my husband was winding downjust another ordinary, mundane conversation, one of countless in our fifteen years of marriage. James, as usual, was updating me about his “business trip” in Manchester: everything was fine, meetings were on schedule, hed be back in three days.
“Alright, love. Talk soon,” I said, moving the phone away to tap the red button. But thensomething stopped me. On the other end, I distinctly heard a womans voice, light and youthful:
“Jimmy, are you coming? Ive drawn the bath”
My hand froze mid-air. My heart stuttered, then hammered so violently I thought it might burst from my chest. I pressed the phone back to my ear, but all I heard were short beepsJames had already hung up.
I sank into the armchair, my legs suddenly weak. My mind raced: *Jimmy? A bath? What bath on a business trip?* Memories of the last few months flashedhis frequent trips, the late-night calls he always took on the balcony, the new cologne lingering in his car.
With trembling hands, I opened my laptop. Logging into his email wasnt difficultId known his password since the days when trust and honesty still existed between us. Tickets, hotel bookings A “honeymoon suite” at a five-star hotel in central Manchester. For two.
Scrolling further, I found the emails. *Charlotte*. Twenty-six. Fitness instructor. *Darling, I cant do this anymore. You promised youd leave her three months ago. How much longer do I have to wait?*
I felt sick. A memory flickeredour first date, back when James was just a junior salesman and I was a trainee accountant. Wed saved for our wedding while renting a tiny flat. Celebrated small wins, consoled each others losses. Now, he was a successful commercial director, I was head of finance at the same company, and between us stretched a chasmfifteen years of marriage and twenty-six years of *Charlotte*.
In the hotel room, James paced furiously.
“Why would you do that?” His voice shook with anger.
Charlotte lounged on the bed, wrapped lazily in a silk robe, her blonde hair splayed across the pillow.
“Whats the big deal?” She stretched like a contented cat. “You said you were leaving her anyway.”
“Thats *my* decision to make! Do you realise what youve done? Emily isnt stupidshell have figured it out!”
“Good!” Charlotte sat up sharply. “Im tired of being your dirty secret. I want dinners out, meeting your friends, being your *wife*.”
“Youre acting like a child,” he gritted out.
“And youre a coward!” She leapt up, stepping closer. “Look at me. Im young, beautiful, I can give you children. What does she have left? Just counting your money?”
James grabbed her shoulders. “Dont you dare talk about Emily like that. You know nothing about heror us!”
“I know enough,” she wrenched free. “I know youre unhappy. That shes buried in work and chores. When was the last time you had sex? Or even took a holiday together?”
James turned to the window. Somewhere in snowy London, in *our* flat, everything was crumbling. Fifteen years of marriage collapsing like a house of cards over one careless sentence.
I sat in the dark kitchen, cradling a cold cup of tea. My phone buzzed with dozens of missed calls from James. I didnt answer. What was there to say? *”Love, I heard your mistress calling you to the bath”?*
Memories flickeredJames proposing on one knee in the middle of a restaurant. Moving into our first tiny two-bed in the suburbs. Him holding me when I lost my mum. Celebrating his promotion
Then came the endless overtime, the mortgages, the renovations.
When had we last talkedreally talked? Watched films curled up on the sofa? Made plans?
Another buzz. A text: *Em, we need to talk. I can explain.*
Explain what? That Id aged? That Id become buried in routine? That a twenty-six-year-old fitness instructor understood him better?
I faced the mirror. Forty-two. Crows feet, greys I dyed every month. When had the exhaustion settled in? The endless chase for stability?
“Jimmy, whered you go?” Charlotte frowned when he returned after another failed call to me.
“Not now.” He slumped into a chair, loosening his tie.
“No, *now*!” She planted her hands on her hips. “What happens next? You know this changes everything.”
James studied herconfident, vibrant, full of life. Emily had been like that fifteen years ago. God, how had he done this?
“Charlotte,” he rubbed his face, “youre right. Its time to end this.”
She brightened, reaching for him. “Darling! I knew youd”
“No.” He gently pushed her back. “This was a mistake. I love my wife. Yes, weve grown apart. But I wont throw away fifteen yearsnot for this.”
“You coward!” Tears spilled down her face.
“No,” he stood. “The coward was the man who started this. Who lied to the woman whos shared every high and low with me. Youre rightIm unhappy. But happiness isnt found on the side. Its built.”
The knock came just past midnight. I knew it was himhed caught the first flight back.
“Em, please open the door.”
I did. James stood thereunshaven, rumpled suit, guilt-ridden.
“Can I come in?”
I stepped aside. We moved to the kitchenwhere wed once dreamed together, made plans.
“Em”
“Dont.” I held up a hand. “I know. Charlotte, twenty-six, fitness instructor. I read your emails.”
He nodded, silent.
“Why, James?”
He stared out at the city. “Because Im weak. Because I was scared wed become strangers. Because she reminded me of youthe *old* you, full of fire and dreams.”
“And now?”
“Now,” he turned to me, “I want to fix this. If youll let me.”
“What about her?”
“Its over. I cant lose you, Em. I wont. I know I dont deserve forgiveness, but lets try. Counselling, more time together, rebuilding what we had”
I studied himolder, greyer, achingly familiar. Fifteen years wasnt just a number. It was inside jokes, shared silence, the ability to forgive.
“I dont know, James.” For the first time that night, I cried.
He pulled me close, and I didnt push him away. Outside, snow kept falling, covering London in white.
Somewhere in Manchester, a young woman wept, facing the brutal truth: love isnt passion or romance. Its a choicemade every single day.
And here, in our kitchen, two middle-aged people tried to pick up the pieces. Ahead lay a long roadof hurt, therapy, painful conversations. But we both knew: sometimes you have to lose something to understand its worth.
