**Diary Entry 30th September**
«Your times up,» my husband said, pointing to the door.
«That smell again! I asked you not to smoke in the house!» Emily flung open the living room windows, angrily swishing the curtains aside. «Good Lord, even the sofa reeks. What will Margaret and her husband think when they come for dinner?»
«And what will they think?» Andrew deliberately stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. «Theyll think a proper bloke lives hereone who enjoys a smoke now and then. Big deal.»
«Proper blokes, Andrew, smoke in the garden or on the balconynot poison their family with cigarette fumes. I get headaches from it.»
«Here we go,» Andrew rolled his eyes. «Twenty-five years living with a smoker, and suddenly its a problem. Maybe its the menopause, Em?»
Emily froze, lips pressed tight. Lately, hed been needling her about age, as if trying to hurt her. And somehow, he always did.
«Whats that got to do with it?» She turned to the window to hide the tears. «Im just asking for basic respect. Is it so hard to step outside?»
«Respect?» He scoffed. «And wheres yours for me? After work, I want to sit in my chair, have a cuppa, and smokenot run about like a schoolboy. Its my house, after all!»
«*Our* house,» she corrected softly.
«Oh right, *ours*,» he muttered. «Except *I* pay the mortgage. *I* paid for the renovation. *I* bought your new coat.»
Emily exhaled. Shed heard this a thousand times. Yes, she hadnt worked in fifteen yearsfirst raising the kids, then caring for his mother, then just settling into being a homemaker. And Andrew never let her forget it.
«I dont want to argue,» she said wearily. «Just smoke on the balcony. Margaret has asthmaitll be hard for her to breathe.»
«Fine,» Andrew conceded unexpectedly. «For your precious Margaret, Ill step outside. But just for tonight.» He stood, heading to the bedroom before tossing over his shoulder, «And whyd you invite them, anyway? Ive an important meeting tomorrowneed my sleep, not to entertain your dull friends.»
«Theyre not just friends,» Emily countered. «Michaels the head librarian. He might help me find work.»
Andrew stopped in the doorway, turning slowly. «*What* work?»
Emily hesitated. Shed meant to tell him later, once things were settled. Now she had no choice.
«I want a job at the library. Three days a week, part-time. The kids are grown, youre always at the office»
«And wholl run the house?» he interrupted. «Cook, clean, do the laundry?»
«Ill manage,» she forced a smile. «Its only a few hours. The kids hardly visit now»
«Your mum does, though,» he grumbled. «Every week, expecting pies and roast dinners.»
«Mum *helps* me. And she doesnt visit that often.»
Andrew waved a hand. «Whatever. But this job ideaits nonsense, Em. Youre forty-seven. What work? Stay home, do your embroidery or whatever. Your little hobbies.»
«My *hobbies*?» Her voice sharpened. «Andrew, do you even remember I have a degree in English Lit? That I taught before the kids? That I had *first-class honours*?»
«So? That was twenty years ago. Times change. Whod hire you with that outdated degree?»
«The *library*,» she repeated. «I dont want a fortune. I want purpose. To feel capable of more than cooking and ironing your shirts.»
«Cheers for that,» he sneered. «So home and family mean nothing? Beneath a clever woman like you?»
«You know thats not what I meant,» she sighed. «Lets talk later. Weve guests coming.»
She retreated to the kitchen, heart pounding. Every conversation lately became a battle. When had it started? Somewhere along the way, theyd begun speaking different languages. He didnt hear herdidnt *want* to.
Once, itd been different. Theyd met at uniboth bookish, in love with words. Andrew wrote poetry; Emily adored it. Then came marriage, Sophie, then James. Andrew climbed the ranks at the publishing house. Emily stayed homewith the kids, the chores, the books she barely had time for anymore.
She hadnt noticed him changing. The romantic student hardening into a cynical, tired man who worked late and stopped asking her thoughts. By the time she noticed, it was too late. They were strangers under one roof.
Margaret and Michael arrived at seven sharp. Michaela burly man with a beardlaunched into politics with Andrew. Margaret, spry and sharp at sixty, joined Emily in the kitchen.
«Hows Andrew taking the job idea?» she asked, chopping salad.
«Badly. Hes against it.»
«What did you expect? Men hate changeespecially if it inconveniences them.»
«But nothing would change! Id still handle the housejust be out a few hours.»
«To him, thats catastrophe,» Margaret chuckled. «Imaginehe comes home, and youre *not there*. The horror!»
They laughed, and Emily relaxed. Margaret always steadied her.
Dinner began civilly. Andrew was charming, joking, asking Michael about new books. Emily dared to hopemaybe hed cooled off.
«Speaking of books,» Margaret turned to Emily, «have you told Andrew about the reading group?»
«What group?» Andrews fork stilled.
«We discussed me running a childrens lit circle at the library,» Emily said. «Twice a week, two hours. Barely anything.»
Andrew set down his fork. «And you thought to *mention* this when?»
«I tried today»
«I recall no *discussion*,» he cut in, addressing the guests. «Emilys obsessed with work lately. At her age, starting a career seems unwise.»
«Why?» Michael frowned. «Emilys highly educated. Wed value her.»
«Perhaps,» Andrew nodded. «But she has obligationsto me, to this home.»
«Andrew,» Emily flushed. «Not in front of»
«Why not?» He smiled coldly. «Were all adults. Lets be clear: I wont have my wife working. Full stop.»
Silence fell. Margaret shot Michael a helpless look; he cleared his throat. «This pie is superb, Emily. Margaret must get the recipe.»
«Of course,» Emily murmured, humiliation knotting her stomach.
The evening limped onweather, news, anything but *work*. When the guests left, Emily cleared the table in silence.
«How long were you hiding this?» Andrew loomed in the doorway.
«I wasnt. I waited for the right time.»
«And when was that? After youd started?»
«I dont understand why youre so angry. Its just a *job*, not an affair.»
«To me, its betrayal,» he said flatly. «We agreedyoud keep house; Id provide. That was the deal.»
«That was *twenty years ago*! The kids are grown. I want to feel *useful*.»
«So home isnt useful?» He stepped closer. «Are you bored of being my wife? Want freedom? New *friends*?»
«What? This is about *purpose*»
«I know all about purpose,» he sneered. «Seen it at work. First the job, then the office flings, then divorce.»
«Good God, Andrew,» she gaped. «You think Ill take a lover at a *library*? Among dusty books and elderly readers?»
«Im just sayingno job. End of.»
Something in her snapped. This was itthe end of hope, maybe of *them*.
«Listen,» she said quietly, «Im taking the job. Ill call Michael tomorrow.»
Andrew stared. «*What*?»
«Im taking it. Not for money or friends. To feel like a person againnot just an appendage to this house.»
«So, youve decided. Without me.»
«I tried deciding *with* you. You wouldnt listen.»
«Brilliant,» he spat, storming off.
She heard him pacing, muttering. Then he returned, holding her handbag and coat.
«Your times up,» he said, pointing to the door. «If you make decisions alone, you can *live* alone. Get out.»
«Youre *kicking me out*? Over a *library job*?»
«Its betrayal. You broke our agreement. Chose yourself over this family.»
«What agreement? That Id rot here alone while you work? The kids are gone, Andrew! What am I supposed to dobake scones for an empty house?»
«Take up *knitting*!» he roared. «I work; you keep house. Simple.»
He shoved the coat at her. «If Im so boring, go. Maybe *Margaret* will put you up.»
Mechanically, she took her things. It felt unrealtheyd argued before, but hed never thrown her out. Never been this cruel.
«Youre serious?» she asked, meeting his eyes. «Over a *job*?»
«Its about respect. And yes, Im serious. *Go*.»
She inhaled, stepped to the door, then turned.
«You know whats saddest? You never asked *why* I need this. Why I want to change. You just *forbade* me, like Im property, not your wife.»
«Then enlighten me,» he challenged.
«Because Im terrified,» she whispered. «That one day, you wont come home. Youll leave me for that young editor youve been staying late with*Olivia*. You take her calls on the balcony, but the walls are thin, Andrew. I *hear* you.»
He recoiled. «*What*? Thats insane!»
«Is it?» She opened the door. «Ask Olivia.»
The hallway was quiet, just jazz drifting from upstairs. Emily descended the steps, emerged into the cool night air. For the first time in years, she felt *light*.
She dialled Margaret. «Its me. Can I come over? Yes, we talked.»
Walking to the bus stop, she marvelled at lifes turns. That morning, shed imagined decades more in that house, with him. Now, stepping into the unknown, shed never felt freer.
Her phone buzzed*Andrew*. She hesitated, then declined the call and switched it off.
Her time *was* up. The time of fear, of silence. Now began something newterrifying, but *hers*. And she was ready.
*Lesson learned: A life built on someone elses terms isnt a lifeits a cage. Sometimes, the doors been open all along. You just needed the courage to walk through it. The bus arrived, its headlights cutting through the mist. She got on, not knowing where she was going, only that it was forward. Somewhere ahead, a library waited, and within it, a desk with her name on it.
