**Diary Entry 6th March**
I never considered myself paranoid. I didnt check phones, throw hysterical interrogations, or sniff collars for stray hairs. My life was built on trustsolid, blind, foolish trust. So when I walked into that café on that wretched Tuesday, arms aching from grocery bags, I didnt believe my eyes at first. There he was. Daniel. My husband, whod kissed me goodbye that very morning, mumbling about an urgent business trip to Manchester and last-minute negotiations.
My first thought, soft as a fledgling: *A colleague. The meeting fell through, and hes grabbing lunch with a coworker.*
The second, colder, slithering in: *Strange He should be on a plane. Or in a Manchester office.*
The third, a punch to the gut: his hand resting atop hers, his expressionthat lost, enchanted look that once belonged only to me. *Is he cheating?*
The café noiseclinking cutlery, murmurs, the hiss of the coffee machinefaded to silence. My legs carried me forward like I was sliding on ice.
*»I thought you were in Manchester,»* I said, my voice flat, alien.
Daniel jerked as if electrocuted. The girla delicate blonde in a cashmere jumperflinched, understanding dawning.
*»Emily»* His whisper cracked.
*»Sit,»* I growled, surprising myself with the venom in my tone. *»So. Business tripyes or no?»*
A pause, thick enough to slice. The girl bit her lip, staring at the table like she wished it would swallow her.
*»No,»* he admitted, the word ugly between us. *»Its not what you»*
*»Got it.»* I cut him off, shifting my gaze to her. *»Your name?»*
*»Charlotte,»* she whispered.
*»Charlotte, how old are you?»* I deliberately used *you*, not *thou*, underlining the gulf between us.
*»Twenty-two.»*
Ten years my junior. Her world was gym selfies, brunches, carefree dating. Mine: mortgages, shared chores, the *»lets wait another year»* conversations about children.
*»How long?»* My inner prosecutor didnt relent.
She glanced at Daniel, who sat statue-still, shame etched into every line.
*»Four months,»* she murmured.
Four months. The number rang in my skull. Thats when his *»late meetings»* and *»work calls»* from the balcony began. Id sensed itfelt the falsenessbut buried the thought. *Not Daniel. Not my Daniel.*
*»Right.»* I slammed my shopping bags onto their table. *»Daniel, up. Were leaving. Now.»*
At home, I gave him two hours to pack. *»Parents, friends, her placeI dont care.»* He pleaded, but I was ice. When the door clicked shut behind him, the dam broke. I sobbed into the couch, eight yearsfive of them marriedcrumbling to dust over a girl who smelled of peony perfume, not laundry detergent.
Charlotte and I met later. Same café, same corner. *»He told me youd split months ago,»* she confessed, pale. *»Swore you were divorcing, just dragging your feet.»*
I almost pitied her. *»We shared a bed until yesterday.»*
Her face crumpled. *»God. Im such an idiot.»*
*»No,»* I said. *»Young. He took advantage.»*
Three months passed. Daniel bombarded me with pleas*»Ill change»*, *»I love only you»*until I blocked him. Then, one evening, sipping tea in my rearranged flat, I realised: I was okay. The constant anxiety*Is he lying?*was gone.
I texted him: *»Lets meet.»*
At the café, I didnt mince words. *»I wont forgive you. Not because of the affairbut because I refuse to spend my life as your jailer, auditing your every move.»*
He begged. *»Ill do anythingtherapy, transparency»*
*»No.»*
We divorced. Sold the house, split the equity. *»Be happy,»* he muttered outside the registry office.
*»I will,»* I said, and meant it.
Walking away, I felt itnot fear, not grief, but lightness. Like shrugging off a lead coat.
Yes, it hurt. Yes, starting over at thirty-four terrified me. But beneath it all, something fragile yet unbroken stirred: faith in myself.
For the first time in years, Id made a hard, honest choice. I chose *me*.
Marriage? Over. But my story? Only just beginning.
