June 14, 2025
Dear Diary,
Today I found myself back in the same therapists office where Emily first came for help. Dr. Harper, a calm woman with spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose, fixed me with a steady gaze and said, Emily, you and your husband share equal blame for the split5050, not 7030 or any other ratio. She spoke as if the numbers were etched in stone, insisting that neither side could claim the whole story.
Emily erupted, Im not at fault! He broke the family! I could see the fire in her eyes, the raw grief that had driven her to the brink. Dr. Harper, unruffled, replied, You both failed to build a proper partnership. Now, what will you do with your two daughters, Lily and Grace? They need a stable mother, not a hysteric one. She asked, Are you thinking of new relationships? Emilys voice cracked, Never! I cant be hurt again. The doctor urged patience, reminding her that youth still lay ahead and that shed married for happiness, a notion taught in school but rarely realised.
Later, when Emily recounted the session to me over tea, she confessed how she had endured my indifference for fifteen years. I tolerated you while you sniffed flowers and never smelled their scent. I could no longer bear our love in shreds. Tears welled up as she spoke, and Dr. Harper, with a halfsmile, proposed an odd experiment. Find a boy for beatingsomeone to practice the art of marriage on. Use your ex as the test subject. Emily stared, Where will I find such a fool? Dr. Harper chuckled, You already have him.
The notion sounded absurd, yet Emily, perhaps out of desperation, agreed. She left our flat with Lily and Grace and moved into a modest rental on the outskirts of London. The divorce was swift; the court granted me a modest settlement of £12,000, which I took as a sign that the ties were truly severed.
For a while I was alone. The silence after fifteen years of marriage felt like a heavy blanket. I tried to fill the void with cheap gifts, bouquets, and even an invitation to a local spa, hoping to win her back. My attempts felt like clumsy dances on a frozen pondeach step threatened to crack the ice.
When Emily finally called a month after the decree, her tone was casual. Hey, James. Fancy meeting up? I have a few questions. My heart raced, Emily? Of course, whenever you like. We met on a bench in HydePark. She didnt press for anything; we talked about weather and the childrens school. I walked her home, kissed her cheek, handed Lily and Grace a small chocolate for each, and watched her disappear into her flat. I waved as I left, and she tossed a playful airkiss back.
Those brief, uncomplicated meetings became a routineonce a month, sometimes at a café, sometimes at the cinema. I began to think the colours of my life were returning, brightening after a long, grey winter. Then, a year later, Emily asked, James, shall we meet today? I replied, Sorry, Im tied up. I hung up, and the pattern repeated a few more times. My nerves frayed; I wondered if she had found someone else, or if I was simply being left behind.
I called her, Emily, the girls miss you. How about a trip to the zoo? She laughed, James, Im at the hospital with my wife. The words hit like a slap. Wife? Youre joking! I shouted into the receiver. No joke. Were expecting a baby with Lily. I was speechless. All I could manage was, Goodbye, Emily. I wish you endless happiness.
Looking back, I realise how the experiment Dr. Harper suggested was a mirror of my own follyclinging to the past, rehearsing love with a former partner, and pretending there was still something to salvage. The lesson I take from this is simple: you cannot rehearse a future with the ghosts of yesterday, and the only genuine progress comes from stepping away, letting go, and learning to live for yourself.
James
