Dear Diary,
I have been staring at the same cracked kitchen window for hours, trying to make sense of the mess my life has become. Imogen loved James with a fervour that made her overlook almost everything about him. We married when she was barely out of her teens, just after she turned nineteen. She had been chasing after James since she was sixteen, even trying to act older than her years. At first he barely noticed her; she was just another girl in the back row. When she grew up, blossomed into a striking young woman, he finally thought, Why not take whats already drifting into my lap?
James was twentyfour then, Imogen eighteen. Their relationship began awkward, offkilter, the sort of thing youd hear older folk mutter about over a pint at the local. He would disappear for days, ignore his phone, refuse to answer messages. Hed simply be out somewhere, wandering the streets of Manchester, and then reappear as if nothing had happened, while Imogen waited for his return, tears often staining her cheeks. He kept telling her he loved only her, but his nature seemed to be that of a freespirit who never stayed put long enough to be caught.
Imogen clung to the hope that one day he would change, that he would love her as fiercely as she loved him.
Then there was Michael, a childhood friend from the same block, the same primary school, the same secondary school. Michael had loved Imogen in secret for as long as he could remember, but he knew she only saw him as a mate. It hurt him to watch her undervalue herself, to see her settle for a man who treated her like an afterthought. He understood that if she ever returned his feelings, he would move mountains for her, but he also accepted that she would never look at him that way. He kept his distance, staying close enough to be a silent guardian.
When James vanished again or started a pointless argument, Imogen would vent to Michael.
Why does he treat me like this? I love him so much shed sigh.
Perhaps you should stop loving him, Michael would snap, his frustration bubbling over.
No, I cant. Dont you understand? shed plead.
Michael understood all too well. He, too, would gladly stop loving her if he could, but his heart refused to obey. He simply watched, feeling the sting of her pain.
James grew increasingly unmanageable. He drank more, flirted openly with other women, and Imogen, in a desperate bid to cling to something, made the biggest mistake a lovesick girl could possibly make she became pregnant, naïvely believing a child would set things right, that James would finally mature, that hed cherish her and love their baby.
At nineteen she told James the news. He offered a halfhearted, We should probably get married then, as if the idea of a wedding were a bureaucratic necessity, not a promise. He never seemed sure why he was tying the knot, perhaps hoping something would fall into place, or simply not knowing he could walk away.
Imogen felt like the happiest bride on our little Manchester wedding day, while Michael watched, his heart heavy with a grief that felt like a funeral. He saw her glowing with hope and wanted, in a selfish way, to keep her close, to lock her away until she realized he was a better choice than James. He never acted on that impulse; instead he feigned wellwishes for her future with James while drowning his own sorrow in whisky.
A son was born we named him Oliver. For a brief spell James tried to act like a proper husband and father. He stopped disappearing, spent more time at home, helped with Oliver, stopped arguing with Imogen. Yet the change was fleeting. When Oliver turned one, James slipped back into old habits. He vanished for three days, leaving Imogen to call every ambulance and morgue, to phone every friend of his, all while Michael kept vigil, sitting with Oliver as Imogen scoured the city searching for her husband. She even filed a police report before James finally staggered back, smelling of stale beer.
How dare you speak to me like that? James snapped, marching into the kitchen. Oliver began to cry, but his father turned a deaf ear, his hangover the only thing on his mind.
From that moment James stopped pretending. Hed come and go, and each time Imogen would let him back in, hoping foolishly hed finally change.
When Oliver was three, James left for good. At first Imogen thought hed simply gone out again, but after picking Oliver up from nursery one evening she found the house empty of his belongings. While she tried to piece together what was happening, a message pinged on her phone: Im filing for divorce dont wait for me.
The world collapsed around her. She screamed, felt life slipping away. Michael was there within the hour, staying with her all day, looking after Oliver, making sure she didnt do anything reckless. After she steadied herself, Michael made a bold declaration.
So Ill be your husband now, and Olivers dad. He said, eyes bright with a mixture of hope and desperation.
Imogen looked at him, shook her head. Im sorry, Michael. I love you as a friend, and Im eternally grateful for everything youve done, but I cant see you as a husband. She tried to soften the blow. I cant love you that way.
I know, Michael replied, his voice flat. But I love you more than just as a friend. I wont let you suffer any longer.
He couldnt find the words to argue further. Imogen, broken, simply nodded. She let him stay, because she could not bear to be alone.
Michael didnt push. He remained present, caring for Oliver as if the boy were his own, never trying to force the future. As Imogen watched him, she realised there would be no better option. No one else would love her son as Michael did, nor look after her with the same tenderness. She surrendered, not out of love, but out of sheer desperation.
When Michael finally proposed, Imogen accepted. Olivers first utterance of dad made Michael weep. Life settled into a pictureperfect family that neighbours envied. Sometimes Michael felt that Imogen might love him as a partner, not just a friend; other times he feared James would reappear, that Imogen might abandon everything and return to her reckless former husband. He lived in a constant tugofwar, rejoicing in their happiness one moment, waking in cold sweats from nightmares the next.
The nightmare became reality on Olivers sixth birthday. We threw a lavish party: trampolines, cake, presents. As Oliver blew out his candles, the doorbell rang.
Someone else here to wish him happy birthday? Imogen laughed, heading to the door.
Michael answered, never looking through the peephole, and felt a cold dread creep into his chest. James stood there, clutching a strange plush rabbit, eyes narrowed.
Whats he doing here? Michaels voice wavered.
James chuckled, Am I still in the picture? Wheres my son? I came to wish him a happy birthday.
Imogens face went pale. Oliver stared between the two men. Dad, whos that? he asked Michael.
James expression darkened. Dad, then?
Michael, get Oliver out of here, Imogen hissed, her voice shaking.
Please she whispered, eyes pleading.
Michaels mind raced. He could never hand Oliver back to this man; he was his father in every meaningful way. He kept Oliver in the living room, trying to distract him with games and gifts, while his heart hammered at the door. He waited for Imogen to step in, to tell him it was time to leave, but she emerged, trembling, a forced smile on her lips.
So, hows everything? she asked, trying to sound casual.
Were playing, Oliver replied, oblivious. Did Uncle leave?
No, he left. Weve already finished the candles and we havent even touched the cake yet! Oliver squealed, dashing for the kitchen. Michael seized Imogens elbow, looking at her with a mixture of sadness and something softer.
Whats wrong? she asked, forcing a grin. Lets get the cake before we all end up at the dentist.
Imogen Michael began.
She turned, pulled him into a brief hug, then planted a soft kiss on his cheek.
Hes not coming back. Oliver doesnt need him; he already has a real dad.
And you?
Me? All I need is you.
Michael smiled, taking Imogens hand toward the kitchen. Perhaps the wild, reckless love of my youth was gone, perhaps a fragment of something lingered in my heart, but the foolish passion had been replaced by a steadier, wiser affection. Michaels love had finally melted the ice around my naive heart. I now know I am happy, more than ever before. The mad, reckless love belongs in the past; it never truly held any good for me.
