**Diary Entry**
I can hardly believe whats happened. Five years of savingsgone. And for what? A flat for his pregnant mistress. My hands shake as I write this. How could he? Thirteen years of marriage, and this is how it ends.
I loved Oliver completelyhis perpetually messy chestnut hair, that tired but tender smile he reserved for our eight-year-old, Alfie. Life in our little market town was quiet, predictable. But lately, something had shifted. He started coming home late, always exhausted. Tonight, he walked in at half past nine, slamming the door too hard. His jacket smelled wrongsickly sweet, floral. Not his usual aftershave.
«Rough day,» he muttered, kissing the top of my head. «Im knackered.»
«Hungry?» I asked, forcing my voice steady. «I can heat something up.»
«No, I just need a shower.»
He brushed past me, and the unease in my stomach tightened. Another meal skipped. His phonealways in his pocket now, never left on the side table. And if I so much as glanced at it, hed tense like a startled deer.
«Youre late again,» I said, picking up his empty mug. «Busy at the office?»
He hovered by the bathroom door. «Quarter-end reports. Paperwork nightmare.»
«Why do you smell like perfume?» The question slipped out sharper than I meant.
He froze. «What? Ohmust be from someone at work. Sarah in accounting wears some overpowering stuff.»
Sarah. Right.
That scent had clung to him for weeks. Id tried to ignore it, told myself it was nothing.
But todaytoday shattered every lie.
Our dream had lived in a savings accounta flat for Alfie, so hed never have to scrape by in some dingy uni halls. We scrimped for years. No holidays, no new car, just every spare penny tucked away. Nearly £25,000enough to give him a proper start.
Then, disaster. A client paid me extra, so I went to the bank to deposit it. The teller, Lucy, frowned at her screen. «Emily, theres nothing here.»
My knees buckled. «Thats impossible.»
«Accounts empty. A large withdrawal two weeks ago£24,900.»
Two weeks ago. Oliver had come home late that night, muttering about a meeting.
I barely remember driving home.
When he walked in, I was waiting, the bank statement neatly folded on the table. No tearsjust ice.
«Sit down,» I said.
He paled, eyes darting to the paper. «Whats this?»
«Tell me what you did with our sons future.»
Silence. Then, grudgingly: «I bought a flat.»
«For who?»
He exhaled, not regretfuljust annoyed, as if I were inconveniencing him. «Sophie.»
The name hit like a slap.
«It just happened. Last year, that team-building weekendshe was there. Nineteen, wild, nothing like you. I lost my head, Emily. With you, its comfortable, but with her»
«Spare me the details. Just tell me why you stole from our child.»
His jaw clenched. «Shes pregnant. Kicked out by her mum. I couldnt leave my daughter with nothing.»
I stood, gripping the windowsill. «So her child matters, but ours doesnt? Fine. Tomorrow, youll sign your half of our house over to Alfie. And Ill file for divorce. Try to stop me, and Ill ruin you.»
He begged afterwardletters, calls, waiting by the door. But Sophie didnt want him either. The baby, born right on time, wasnt even histhose dark, almond-shaped eyes told the whole story.
And just like that, thirteen years turned to dust.
