**Diary Entry 17th June**
I still cant believe it. The moneyfive years of scrimping and saving, gone. Spent on *her*.
«Are you out of your mind?» I barely recognised my own voice. «You spent our entire savings*my* money tooon a flat for your pregnant mistress? How could you?»
Thirteen years. Thirteen years with James, loving him blindly, adoring his messy chestnut hair and that tired, tender smile hed give when he looked at our eight-year-old, Oliver. Life in our quiet market town had been simple, predictable. Until now.
He walked in at half past nine, as he had been doing latelyalways late, always excuses. His suit jacket reeked of perfume, something sweet and floral. Not his usual cologne. My stomach twisted.
«Evening,» he muttered, brushing a kiss to the top of my head. «Exhausted. Brutal day.»
«Dinners ready,» I offered.
«No, ta. Just need a shower.»
He moved past me, and thats when the unease settled in. Hed been refusing meals for weeks. His phonealways in his pocket now, screen down, locked. Any mention of it made him twitch.
«Youre late,» I said, rinsing my teacup. «Busy at work?»
He paused at the bathroom door.
«Yeah. End of quarter. Paperwork nightmare.»
«Why do you smell like that?» The question came out sharper than I meant.
He stiffened. «Like what?»
«Perfume. Flowers. Not yours.»
«Oh. Mustve been someone at the office. Lucy in accounting was showing off her new scent. Reeks, doesnt it?» He forced a laugh. «Dont fuss, Em. Im knackered.»
*Lucy from accounting.* Sure. That floral stench had clung to him for weeks. Id told myself it was nothingjust a colleagues overzealous spritzing. But tonight, I knew.
Our familys dream had lived in a savings accountfive years of sacrifices. No holidays, no new car, just squirrelling away every spare pound for Olivers future. James, an engineer at the local plant, and me, taking in sewing jobs. Nearly £25,000 saved. Enough for a flat, so Oliver wouldnt have to scrape by at university.
Then, disaster. A client paid me extra for a rush job, so I went to the bank to deposit it. The teller, Saraha girl Id known for yearsfrowned at her screen.
«Emily the accounts empty.»
«What?»
«Zero balance. A withdrawal two weeks ago. The full amount.»
My knees buckled. «How much?»
«£24,900. Closed by Mr. Hartley.»
That TuesdayJames had come home late, muttering about meetings.
I left the bank in a daze.
Later, I sat at the kitchen table, the printed statement folded neatly in front of me. No tears. Just ice.
James walked in, tossed his keys onto the side. «Alright? You look peaky.»
«Sit down.»
He saw the papers. His face fell.
«Em, I can explain»
«£24,900. Gone. Where?»
He slumped into the chair. «I bought a flat.»
«For *who*?»
A long breath. Then, with a grimace: «Sophie.»
The name hung between us like a guillotine.
He babbledsome work retreat last year, a girl ten years his junior. Nineteen, tattoos, a motorbike. «Shes *alive*, Em. Youre… safe. Comfortable. With her, I felt young again.»
My nails bit into my palms.
«And the baby?»
His face twisted. «She rang me out of the blue. Pregnant. Kicked out by her mum. I couldnt abandon my own kid, could I?»
I stood, walking to the window. «So *her* child matters, but ours doesnt? Fine. Tomorrow, youll sign your half of this house over to Oliver. Ill file for divorce. And if you fight me, James, Ill ruin you.»
He begged after thatcalls, letters, waiting outside the house. But the girls baby? Born right on time, with eyes that left no question. Not his.
Karmas a bitch.
