**Diary Entry 12th April**
I knew something was off when Emma walked in late again. «Third time this week,» I muttered, tossing the newspaper onto the coffee table. «Dinner was supposed to be two hours ago.»
She hurriedly unloaded groceries onto the kitchen counter. «Queues at the shop were endless. You couldve started cooking yourself, you know. It wouldnt kill you.»
«Its not about dinner,» I stepped closer, watching her carefully. «Its about you vanishing half the time. Work delays, shopping queues, sudden catch-ups with friendsand now your phones off? I called three times.»
Emma sighed, shoulders sagging. «Battery died, probably. You know how old my phone iscant hold a charge anymore.»
Fifteen years of marriage had sharpened my eye for detailsthe slight tension in her movements, the way she avoided my gaze, the overly careful replies. Something wasnt right, and that *something* had gnawed at me for months.
«Fish or sausages?» she asked, as if nothing was amiss.
«Whatever,» I grumbled, retreating to the sofa.
The telly droned, but my mind was elsewhere. Emma used to rush home to meet me after work. Wed chat over dinner, make weekend plans. Now? A wall had risen between usinvisible, but solid.
Half an hour later, she called me to eat. We sat in silence, exchanging only the usual remarks about rain and rising prices.
«Mum rang earlier,» Emma finally said. «Asked if were visiting the cottage this weekend.»
«And?»
«I said probably. That alright?»
I shrugged. «Fine by me. Been ages since we got out.»
After dinner, she disappeared into the bathroom while I cleared up. Her handbag sat on the chairbulky, stuffed with pockets. I hadnt meant to rummage, but as I tugged out her purse to stash it in the hall (our old habit), something hard clunked against the table.
A phone. Not her battered old one, but a sleek new model.
I froze.
A second phone. Emma had a second phone shed never mentioned.
Dazed, I sank into a chair, turning it over in my hands. Memories flashedEmma stepping away to take calls, clutching her bag like a lifeline, those unexplained absences.
The screen was locked. I didnt try guessing the code. Just slid it back where Id found it.
When she returned, I was staring blankly at the telly.
«You alright?» she asked.
«Just tired,» I muttered, avoiding her eyes.
That night, I lay awake as she slept peacefully beside me. One awful thought circled: *Why a secret phone?* There was only one answer, and it tore at me. An affair. Calls, messages, meetingswas this how fifteen years ended?
Next morning, I studied her as she made tea, packed her bag.
«Late again today?» I asked, feigning nonchalance.
«Doubt it,» she said. «Ill call if I am.»
*Which phone will you use?* I almost spat, but bit my tongue.
Work was a blur. All I saw was Emma whispering into that hidden phone. *Who? About what?* A colleague joked I looked like a man whod caught his wife cheating. I forced a laugh, not realising how close he was.
By lunch, I cracked. I rang Paul, an old mate who ran a PI firm, and met him at a café near my office.
«Found this in Emmas bag,» I admitted, explaining about the phone.
«And you think shes cheating?» Paul sipped his coffee.
«What else am I supposed to think?»
«Dont jump to conclusions. Get the facts first. Or ask her outrighthonestys usually best.»
But I wasnt ready for that. What if she confessed? Forgiveness? Divorce? Starting over at forty-three?
That evening, I came home early. Emma wasnt back. I searched her drawers, bagsnothing suspicious except that missing phone.
She arrived at seven. «Youre home early. Everything okay?»
«We need to talk,» I said.
Her face tightened. «About?»
«Your second phone. I found it last night. It fell out of your bag.»
She paled, sinking onto a chair. «Oh.»
«Thats all youve got?» My voice rose. «Fifteen years, and you Who is he? How longs this been going on?»
«What on earth are you on about?»
«Your bloody lover! Why else hide a phone?»
To my shock, she didnt deny it. Just sat there, staring at her hands. Then, slowly, she pulled the phone from her bag and laid it on the table.
«See for yourself,» she said quietly. «Passcodes our wedding date.»
I punched in the numbers, expecting texts from some bloke, incriminating photos. Insteada drawing app, nature shots, and one saved contact: «Hazelwood Publishing.»
«Whats this?»
Emma took a deep breath. «Its for my writing. My… hobby. Its started making money.»
«Writing?»
«I write childrens books, Tom. Have done for three years. Just for fun at first, then I sent some off. Six months ago, a publisher bit.»
I gaped at her. «Youre an author? And you kept it from me?»
«I was scared youd laugh,» she whispered. «Remember how you mocked my uni poetry? Amateur drivel, you called it. Then when the publisher replied… I didnt want to jinx it. Thought Id tell you when the first book printed.»
My cheeks burned. I *had* ridiculed her back then, in front of friends, never minding her feelings.
«So *thats* where youve been? Writing stories?»
«Sometimes the library, sometimes cafésanywhere quiet. The phones for the publisher and notes. I didnt want work calls interrupting. Plus, the drawing appsI sketch illustrations too.»
I scrolled through drafts, character sketches, editor emails. «Why not tell me?»
«First I feared ridicule, then failure. When it worked out… I wanted to surprise you. The books out in two months. Id planned to give you the first copy on our anniversary.»
I sat stunned. All my suspicions, jealousyall for nothing. She wasnt unfaithful. She was just… writing fairy tales.
«Can I read one?» I finally asked.
«You really want to?»
«Course.» I moved closer. «I ought to know what talent my wifes been hiding.»
She hesitated, then opened a file and handed me the phone. «Its about a little hedgehog scared of the dark.»
I read, and with each line, my grin grew. The story was tender, simple, yet profoundeverything a childrens tale should be.
«This is brilliant,» I said honestly. «Youve got real talent, Em.»
«Really?» She searched my face. «Youre not just saying it?»
«I swear. Im proud of you. And Im so sorry I thought…»
«That I was cheating?» She gave a wry smile. «Fifteen years without a hint of jealousy, and now this.»
«Forgive me.» I kissed her hand. «Ive been an idiot.»
«We both have,» she sighed. «I shouldve told you instead of all this secrecy.»
We talked for hours. She showed me drafts, sketches, dreams. And I listened, amazed at how much I *hadnt* known about my own wifethe woman Id reduced to just a part-time accountant.
«You know,» I said later, «Im glad I found that phone. Its like meeting you all over again.»
«Me too,» she smiled. «No more sneaking off to cafés. I can write at home now.»
«On one condition,» I pulled her close. «I get to read your stories first. Before editors, publishersanyone.»
«Deal,» she laughed. «My personal critic. Just no amateur drivel, yeah?»
«Promise.» I kissed her forehead. «Only honest feedback.»
That night, I lay awake, thinking how close Id come to wrecking us over stupid suspicions. How quick Id been to accuse, how blind Id been to her. Beside me, Emma sleptmy wife, far more remarkable than Id ever realised. And I vowed then to pay attention, to *see* her properly.
Two months later, on our anniversary, she handed me that first printed copya bright book of tales, its flyleaf inscribed: *»For Tommy fiercest critic and dearest love. Thank you for believing in me.»*
And it was the best story Id ever read.
**Lesson learned:** Assumptions are poison. The people we think we know best are often the ones hiding the brightest parts of themselvessometimes out of fear *we* planted there. Listen before accusing. Look before judging. And for Gods sake, let your partner keep their dreams, even the secret ones.
