**Diary Entry 12th June, 2023**
*”I have a new life now,” my husband said before turning off the light.*
“Margaret, is it true your Peter has moved to the cottage for good?” asked Mrs. Thompson from next door, leaning over the garden fence.
Margaret nearly dropped her watering can. She’d been tending to her tomato plants for half an hour, but her thoughts were tangled like loose yarn in an old sewing box.
“Oh, dont listen to gossip, Mrs. Thompson,” she murmured, avoiding her neighbours gaze. “Its just the summer heathe fancied staying there a little longer.”
“They do say he took all his things,” Mrs. Thompson pressed. “Sold his car, too.”
Margaret stiffened. *Sold his car?* How did the neighbour know something she didnt?
“Peters just taken up gardening seriously, thats all,” she said, her voice barely steady.
Mrs. Thompson nodded knowingly and wandered off, leaving Margaret staring at the wet tomato leaves. *Sold his car.* So it was true. He hadnt been joking that night a week ago when shed asked him to help carry the shopping in.
“I cant live like this anymore, love,” hed muttered, sitting on the edge of their bed, staring at the wall. “Ive got a new life now.” Then he turned off the lamp.
By morning, he was gone. Only a note on the kitchen table: *Keys to the cottage in the drawer. Dont let the food spoil.*
Margaret set the watering can down and stepped inside. Thirty-two years of marriage. Thirty-two years in this house, decorating, renovating, filling it with memories. She remembered picking out the chandelier in the sitting room, how Peter had spent half a day cursing over the wiring.
“Mum, you alright?” Her daughter, Emily, rang. “You sound odd.”
“Just tired, darling. This heat, you know.” Margaret sank onto the stool by the phone.
“Hows Dad? I was thinking of bringing Oliver round this weekend.”
Oliverher grandson, seven years old, who adored his grandad. Weekends had always meant fishing trips or tinkering in the shed. What was she supposed to tell him now?
“Dads at the cottage, busy with the garden. You know how he loves his tomatoes.”
“Yeah, I remember. Youre not lonely, are you? Fancy coming to ours?”
“No, noIve got preserves to make.” She hurried off the phone.
*Preserves.* Ridiculous. Every August, their kitchen had turned into a factoryhim sterilising jars, her chopping vegetables. The house would smell of vinegar and sugar, rows of jams and pickles lining the shelves. Peter had always bragged to his mates at the pub: *”My Margarets got golden hands!”*
Now? What was the point?
She wandered to the window. Children played in the street; women chatted on benches. Life went on. Hers had simply stopped.
The landline rang. For a wild second, she hoped it was Peterbut the voice was unfamiliar.
“Margaret? Its Dorothy from the village near your cottage. Your husband asked me to tell you not to worry. Hes taken a room with the Wilsons, three doors down from your place.”
“A *room*?”
“Yes. Said the cottage was too small. Asked me to pass along that if you need anything, you can ring the Wilsons.”
Margaret hung up slowly. *A room. Separate lives.* But why? What had she done?
She drifted through the house, tracing framestheir wedding, Emilys christening, holidays in Cornwall. When had it all faded? When had they stopped laughing, stopped *talking*?
She tried to recall the last real conversation. Months ago, maybe.
“Remember that time we saw *Les Mis* in the West End?” Peter had asked out of nowhere one evening.
“That was *fifteen* years ago!”
“Just thinking, thats all.” Hed sighed and changed the channel.
At the time, shed thought nothing of it. Now she wonderedhad he been reaching for something lost?
Margaret opened her wardrobe. Dresses hung untouched for years. When had she stopped bothering?
The mirror showed a tired woman of fifty-seven. When had she become this stranger?
Emily rang again. “Mum, Im coming over. Somethings wrong.”
An hour later, her daughter stormed in, frantic. “Wheres Dad *really*?”
Margaret told her everythingthe note, the call from Dorothy. Emily listened, stunned.
“But you never even argued!”
“No. We just… stopped speaking.”
Emily paced. “Ill talk to him.”
“Dont. If he wanted to talk, he would.”
“This is mad. Thirty-two years, and he just leaves? Is there someone else?”
Margaret flinched. Peter wasnt that sort. Was he?
They sat up late, reminiscinghow hed taught Emily to ride a bike, helped with maths homework.
“Mum,” Emily said softly, “what if you go to him? Not as his wife demanding answers, but as a friend?”
The next morning, Margaret booked a haircut, bought a new dress, dug out old makeup.
“Mum, you look lovely!” Emily gasped that evening. “Whats the occasion?”
“Im seeing your father tomorrow. For coffee.”
Emily blinked. “*What*?”
“Call it a second chance.”
—
*Lesson learned: Sometimes love doesnt fadeit just forgets how to speak. And sometimes, you have to learn the language all over again.*
