**Diary Entry**
Emily hadnt quite finished hanging up when she heard the unfamiliar female voice on the other end of the line.
She stood by the window, watching the thick London snowfall blanket the city. The call with her husband, James, had been winding downjust another routine conversation in their fifteen years of marriage. As usual, he was reporting from his «business trip» in Manchester: everything was fine, meetings were going to plan, he’d be back in three days.
«Alright, love. Talk soon,» Emily said, moving the phone away to tap the red end-call button. But something stopped her.
On the other end, a womans voiceyoung, lightcut through: *»Jamie, are you coming? Ive run the bath»*
Emilys hand froze mid-air. Her heart stalled, then hammered so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. She jerked the phone back to her ear, but only heard the dull tone of a disconnected call.
Her legs gave way as she sank into the armchair. Thoughts whirled: *»Jamie A bath What bath on a business trip?»* Memories surfacedhis frequent travel, the late-night calls he always took on the balcony, the new cologne in his car.
With shaking hands, she opened her laptop. Logging into his email was easy; she’d known the password since the days when trust was unshakable. Tickets, hotel bookings *A honeymoon suite in a five-star Manchester hotel. For two.*
Then, the emails. *Chloe. Twenty-six. Personal trainer.* *»Darling, I cant do this anymore. You promised youd leave her months ago. How much longer?»*
Emily felt sick. She remembered their first dateJames, then a junior manager, and her, a trainee accountant. Theyd saved for their wedding while renting a tiny flat, celebrating small victories, weathering setbacks. Now? He was the Commercial Director; she, Head of Finance. And between thema fifteen-year chasm, and a twenty-six-year-old Chloe.
In the hotel room, James paced furiously.
*»Why did you do that?»* His voice shook with anger.
Chloe lounged on the bed, wrapped in a silk robe, her blonde hair fanned across the pillow.
*»Whats the big deal?»* She stretched lazily. *»You said you were leaving her.»*
*»That was my decision to make! Do you realise what youve done? Emily isnt stupidshell have figured it out!»*
*»Good!»* Chloe sat up sharply. *»Im sick of being your dirty secret. I want restaurants, meeting your friendsbeing your wife!»*
*»Youre acting like a child,»* he hissed.
*»And youre a coward!»* She marched toward him. *»Look at me! Im young, beautifulI could give you children. What can she do? Count your money?»*
James grabbed her shoulders. *»Dont you dare talk about her like that! You know nothing about us!»*
*»I know enough,»* she spat, wrenching free. *»I know youre miserable. That shes buried in work and routine. When was the last time you slept together? Travelled together?»*
He turned to the window. Somewhere in snowy London, his life with Emily was crumbling. Fifteen years, collapsing like a house of cards over one careless phrase.
Emily sat in the dark kitchen, cradling a cold cup of tea. Dozens of missed calls from James lit up her phone. She couldnt answer. What was there to say? *»Darling, I heard your mistress call you to her bath»?*
Memories flickeredJames proposing in a crowded restaurant, their first tiny flat in the suburbs, him holding her when her mother died, celebrating his promotion
Then came the endless overtime, the mortgages, the renovations.
When had they last talked properly? Watched films curled up on the sofa? Dreamed of the future?
Her phone buzzed again. A text: *»Em, we need to talk. I can explain.»*
Explain what? That shed aged? That life had dulled her? That a young personal trainer understood him better?
She studied her reflectionforty-two, fine lines, grey roots she coloured religiously. When had the exhaustion crept in? The rigid routines, the chase for stability?
*»Jamie, where are you going?»* Chloe scowled as he returned from another failed attempt to call Emily.
*»Not now,»* he muttered, loosening his tie.
*»Yes, now!»* She planted her hands on her hips. *»I deserve to knowwhat happens next?»*
James looked at herconfident, radiant, everything Emily had been fifteen years ago. How had he done this?
*»Chloe,»* he rubbed his face, *»youre right. Its time to decide.»*
She beamed, rushing to him. *»I knew youd do the right thing!»*
He gently pushed her back. *»Yes. This ends now.»*
Her face fell. *»What?»*
*»I love my wife. Weve drifted, but I wont throw away fifteen years. Happiness isnt foundits built.»*
*»You coward!»* Tears spilled down her cheeks.
*»No. I was the coward when I started this. Now, Im choosing loyalty.»*
The knock came near midnight. Emily knew it was himhed caught the first flight back.
*»Em, please,»* his voice was muffled through the door.
She opened it. James stood thereunshaven, rumpled, guilt written in his eyes.
*»Can we talk?»*
Silently, she let him in. They sat at the kitchen tablewhere theyd once dreamed together.
*»Em»*
*»Dont,»* she cut him off. *»I know everything. Chloe. Twenty-six. Personal trainer. I read your emails.»*
He nodded, speechless.
*»Why, Jamie?»*
He stared at the city lights. *»Because I was weak. Because we grew apart. Because she reminded me of youthe you full of fire and dreams.»*
*»And now?»*
*»Now»* He met her gaze. *»Now I want to fix this. If youll let me.»*
*»What about her?»*
*»Its over. I cant lose you, Em. Well see a counsellor, spend time togetherrebuild what we had.»*
Emily studied himolder, greyer, achingly familiar. Fifteen years wasnt just a number. It was shared jokes, silent understanding, forgiveness.
*»I dont know, Jamie,»* she whispered, crying at last.
He pulled her close, and she didnt resist. Outside, snow softened the city.
Somewhere in Manchester, a young woman wept, learning a brutal truth: love isnt passion or romance. Its a daily choice.
And in that kitchen, two weathered souls began piecing their life back togetherthrough hurt, through therapy, through rediscovery.
They both knew: sometimes, you must lose something to understand its worth.
