**A Personal Diary Entry**
The morning light caught the edge of her suitcase in the hallway.
“Emily…” I began.
“Don’t,” she cut me off. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. I was alone.
I sat at the kitchen table, pushing my fork through cold shepherd’s pie. Half past six. Emily was already an hour and a half late. The telly in the corner muttered something about another political scandal, but I wasnt listening.
My gaze drifted over familiar thingsthe yellow curtains with daisies shed hung five years ago, my slippers by the fridge, her knitted jumper draped over the chair. Everything in its place. Except her.
The front door clicked. Finally.
“Ivan, Im so sorry!” Her voice was tired. “Dad took ill. We had to call an ambulance.”
I winced. Always her parents.
Emily stumbled into the kitchenhair wild, eyes red.
“What happened?” I asked, not looking up from my plate.
“His blood pressure spiked. The doctor said he needs constant monitoring…” She dropped into the chair opposite. “Mum panicked. Didnt know what to do.”
“They dont have a phone? Cant call for help themselves?”
Emily flinched as if Id struck her.
“Ivan, theyre in their seventies. They were scared. And theyre my family.”
“And what am I? Not family?” I set my fork down. “No one home, dinner gone cold. I come back from work, and youre”
“Sorry,” she whispered, reaching for the stove. “Ill heat it up.”
But the irritation was already boiling inside me. She used to meet me at the doorhand me my slippers, ask about my day. Now it was always her parents.
Emily moved silently at the hob, shoulders slumped, hands trembling as she shifted pans. I watched the back of her head and remembered how she used to turn to me with a smile.
When was that? A month ago? Two?
“Listen,” I said, softening my tone, “maybe they really do need a carer. Theyve got decent pensions.”
Emily froze, ladle in hand.
“Decent? Ivan, Dad gets £800 a month, Mum £600. Half of that goes on medicine and bills.”
“£600?” I frowned. “She worked her whole life.”
“As a teacher. In a village school.” She turned to me. “You know this.”
I didnt. Never paid much attention to her parents finances. Mine died ten years ago, leaving a one-bed flat I sold straight away. Hers? I only saw them at Christmas.
“Then hire help by the hour,” I suggested. “Cleaning, cooking.”
“With what money?” Her voice sharpened. “Did you hear me? £1,400 between them!”
I shrugged. Never crossed my mind to count someone elses pennies. We had enoughmy engineers salary, her private tutoring. Comfortable, no luxuries, but no hardship either.
Outside, the sky darkened. Emily set a reheated plate before me and sat down. Didnt eatjust rested her cheek on her hand, staring at the table.
“Em,” I said. “I dont mind helping. But you cant abandon our family.”
“What family?” She looked up. “Are we even a family?”
The question hung there.
I chewed slowly. A family? Suppose so. No kidsshe couldnt have them, and adoption never felt right. Just the two of us, quiet, steady.
“Of course we are,” I finally said.
The next weeks were nothing but tension. Emily was at her parents every other daydoctors, errands, cleaning. I came home to an empty flat.
Dishes piled up, sheets unmade, leftovers in the fridge.
“I cant do this anymore,” I said one evening. “The house is falling apart.”
“What exactly is falling apart?” She was exhausted, a bag of laundry in her arms. “Forgotten how to cook? Wash up?”
“Its not about that.”
“Then what?”
I had no answer. It wasnt the chores. It was that Id been the centre of her world. And now I wasnt.
“Theyre not children,” I tried. “They managed without you before.”
“Mum fell in the bath yesterday. Lay there two hours before I found her.” She threw the bag down. “What, should I have left them?”
“Hire a carer!”
“With what?” she shouted. “With what?”
We stood in the kitchen, yellingthe first time in fifteen years of marriage.
Emily cried, tears streaking her cheeks. My chest burned.
“Ivan, do you hear yourself?” Her voice shook. “Theyre my parents! My father! My mother!”
“And what am I?” I snapped. “A lodger? A housemate?”
“Youre my husband! But they”
“But they matter more!” I cut in. “Fifteen years we were fine, and now you remember some duty?”
She recoiled like Id hit her.
“How can you say that? Theyre old, ill”
“And Im thirty? Im tired too! I want my wife home, not God knows where!”
“So I should abandon them? Let them die alone?”
“I didnt say die! But theyve got moneyhire help!”
“What money?” she screamed. “Carers cost £20 an hour! At least!”
I faltered. Never thought about carer rates.
“Well… maybe not every day. An hour here and there”
“An hour?” She laughed, hysterical. “Clean, cook, wash, laundryin an hour? Be serious!”
“I cant take this!” I slammed my fist on the table. “Youre gone every day! Every single day!”
The words spilled out, and I knewthat was it. Not the chores, not the cold dinners. Fear. Fear of losing her. Of being alone.
Emily stared, wide-eyed.
“So its not about money. Youre jealous. Of my own parents.”
“Im not!” I snapped, though she was right. “I just… I want my wife, not a carer!”
“What if your parents were alive?” she asked. “Would you abandon them?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
My parents… If theyd lived this long, maybe Id have helped. Maybe.
But this was different.
“My parents are gone,” I started.
“Mine arent!” she shot back.
“Then heres the deal,” I said quietly. “No more visits. And if you want to help financially£100 a month. Enough for a carer twice.”
“What?”
“No more visits. No more than £100. Thats it. Im putting my foot down.”
Emily stood theresmall, dishevelled, tear-streaked. Looking at me like shed never seen me before.
“Putting your foot down,” she repeated slowly. “To me. A forty-year-old woman. Forbidding me to help my dying parents.”
“Em”
“£100 a month,” she continued, ignoring me. “Thats two carer visits. One hour each. Two hours of help a month. The rest of the time, they should starve? Live in filth?”
She went quiet. Wiped her tears. Stared at me a long moment. Then turned and walked out.
The next morning, her suitcase was in the hallway.
“Emily” I began.
“Dont,” she said. “You made your choice. Now Ive made mine.”
The door slammed. I was alone.
The first days were almost nice. No one nagged about socks on the floor. I could watch football late, eat straight from the pan. Freedom.
But after a week, it wasnt working. I found a cleaner through an adMargaret, mid-forties. Came twice a week. Scrubbed, laundered, cooked ahead. Cost me £400 a month.
“Wheres the wife?” she asked once.
“Split up,” I said shortly.
She tutted sympathetically and kept scrubbing.
News of Emily came in scraps. A neighbour saw her at the GPs with an old manher dad, likely. A colleague mentioned spotting her at the theatre with some posh bloke.
Then she filed for divorce.
The neighbour told me when Emily remarried, barely hiding her smirk:
“Your Emilys wed again. To some doctor. Widower, kids and all.”
I nodded, shut the door. Sat on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
So shed found a new family. With kids. Wonder how she handled that?
Years slipped by. Margaret came like clockwork. I worked, watched telly, met friends occasionally. Life settled.
Till I turned sixty. Work grew hardback pain, blood pressure. I retired.
Paperwork done, pension sorted. Less than Id hoped£600 a month. With bills at £200, not much left.
First to go was the cleaner.
Suddenly, at sixty, I was doing laundry, cooking. Hands clumsy, back aching from mopping. What Emily had done effortlessly now took half my day.
After six months, I knewsomething had to change. So I made the call.
“Hello?” Her voice was strange now.
“Em… Its me.”
Silence.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
Words stuck. I fidgeted, gripping the phone.
“I… I was wrong. Im sorry.”
“And?”
“I want to fix things.”
She laughed.
“Fix things? Its been ten years, Ivan. Ten!”
“I know, but”
“Everything has a price,” she cut in. “Understanding came too late.”
The line went dead. I set the phone down slowly.
That evening, I sat at the same kitchen table. The yellow curtains had faded. Emilys jumper was long gone. Just my slippers by the fridgeworn, old.
Outside, streetlights flickered on. Neighbours windows glowedfamilies inside, someone waiting for someone.
And I was alone.
