**Diary Entry**
*Friday, 8th October*
“Where are you off to so late, Oliver?” I asked, watching as my husband hastily buttoned up his shirt. The clock on the wall ticked awayhalf past seven in the evening. He barely glanced at me as he grabbed his coat from the rack.
“Work emergency. Projects gone sideways,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Dont wait up.”
Lately, these sudden “emergencies” had become routine. A knot of unease tightened in my chest, one Id been stubbornly ignoring.
“Again? Third time this week,” I said, tryingand failingto keep the accusation from creeping into my voice.
“Cant be helped,” Oliver finally met my eyes, but his gaze was distant, hollow. “Ill try not to be too late.”
The front door clicked shut. I stood there for a moment, staring at the empty hallway, then turned slowly.
“Mum, wheres Dad going?” Our seven-year-old, Emily, padded out of her room, clutching a board game. “He promised wed play tonight.”
I crouched down, smoothing a hand over her shoulder. Her eyes shimmered with hurt.
“Dads got a big work project, love. Its very important,” I said, though the words rang false even to me.
Emily sighed, shoulders slumping, and trudged back to her room. I watched her go, then headed to the kitchen. To lift her spirits, I decided to bake her favouriteoatmeal raisin biscuits. Kneading the dough, my hands moved on autopilot while my mind raced.
All the signs were there: the secrecy, the late nights, the way hed stopped kissing me goodbye. We barely spoke anymore unless it was about school or chores.
At dinner, Emily brightened a little, nibbling warm biscuits and chattering about her day. I nodded along, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Later, I tucked her in, read a chapter of *The BFG*, kissed her forehead.
Back in the kitchen, I scrubbed plates under warm water, the same question gnawing at me: *Should I confront him?* The truth coiled in my guthe was seeing someone else. But what would that mean for Emily? She adored him. Then again, living with a liar was suffocating.
Two weeks passed. Oliver grew jumpier, flinching at phone calls, shielding his screen whenever I entered.
Then, on Saturday, he stayed in. We sat on the sofa, half-watching telly while Emily did homework. My phone buzzedan unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Jessica?” A womans voice, crisp and unfamiliar.
“Yes, speaking. Who is this?” I frowned.
“Margaret Whitmore. We need to talk. Its important.”
“Im sorry, I think youve got the wrong”
She cut me off sharply. “I havent. You *are* Olivers wife, arent you?”
I froze. Olivers head snapped toward me.
“Yes,” I said slowly, hitting speakerphone and setting it down.
“Good. Im Sophies motherthe girl your husbands been seeing for a year.” Her tone was eerily calm, as if discussing the weather. “Sophies only twenty, and Olivers her first. Shes *besotted*. Im asking you to step aside. Be civilised about this.”
My eyes locked onto Oliver. His face drained of colour.
“Sophie cries herself to sleep,” Margaret continued. “They deserve to be happy. You *must* see that.”
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. “Thank you for calling, Margaret. Ill consider what youve said.”
I hung up. Oliver was gripping the armrest like it was a lifeline.
“Well?” My voice sounded unnervingly calm.
“Itsits lies!” He leapt up, hands flailing. “I dont even *know* a Sophie!”
My phone pinged. Photos loadedOliver with a blonde girl, laughing in a café, his arm around her.
“Margaret sent proof,” I said, turning the screen toward him.
His face twisted with fury. “Fine! Yes, its true! We met at a conferenceit just *happened*! What did you expect?”
I stood slowly, bewildered. “How is this *my* fault?”
“Because you stopped *trying*!” he shouted. “When was the last time you asked about *my* day? Cooked my favourite meal? Smiled at me?”
I gaped. “And you? When did *you* last show *me* affection?”
“Thats different!” he snapped. “*I* work to provide! *Youre* supposed to keep the spark alive!”
I barked a laugh. “Says *who*? Some outdated handbook?”
“Where am I supposed to *live* if we split?” he blurted, then paled.
Ah. *There* it was.
“So *thats* why you stayed quiet,” I said coldly. “Not guiltyou were scared of losing your *house*.”
He said nothing.
“Pack your things,” I said. “*Now*.”
Emily appeared, wide-eyed. I pulled her close, guiding her back to her room. “Come on, love. Lets finish your maths.”
An hour later, Oliver stood in the hallway, suitcases at his feet. “Jess, give me another chance,” he begged.
I opened the door. “Go to Sophie. Let *her* coddle you.”
The lock clicked behind him. I leaned against the door, eyes shut. Emptiness. Relief. No more lies. No more pretending.
