Dear Diary,
Tonight I finally managed to get the house in order after a day that felt like a marathon. Paul had mentioned he wanted a seafood pasta for dinner, so after work I popped into the local Tesco, grabbed everything we needed, and spent the evening cooking alone. He was a little late, but when he finally walked in he was waving a big bunch of roses and shouted, Laura, welcome home, love! I laughed, took the flowers, and set them in a vase.
After we ate, we talked through the days little irritations and settled onto the sofa to watch a film. Its been more than ten years since Paul and I said I do, and what once was a roaring passion has settled into a warm, familiar comfort. We run a modest joint venture: I handle the suppliers, hes in charge of sales and the accounts. We have a nice flat in Manchester, everything feels fullthough we havent bothered with children yet. Maybe when were closer to forty.
A few weeks ago I rescued a scruffy kitten from the alley behind our block. Paul wasnt thrilled.
Whats this ragtag creature youve brought home? Take it to a shelter. If you want a cat, get a pedigreemaybe a British Shorthair, theyre all the rage. Not this stray, he snapped.
I grew attached to the little thing and named him Mittens. Hes a greystriped lad who quickly became my tailend companion, much to Pauls annoyance. Their relationship turned into a silent standoff: Paul would try to nudge him away, and Mittens would respond by curling up on his trousers, shedding fur, or clawing at his sweater.
Youll see, Im getting rid of that cat. Its ruining my clothes, Paul huffed one night.
Dont toss the clothes, just put them away. The cat doesnt like the mess, I replied, trying to stay calm.
Barcik? Thats a stupid name, he muttered, and Mittens glared back with his mysterious green eyes.
Thus began a yearlong tugofwar between husband and feline. Lately Pauls temper flared even at Mittenss mere presence. Whats he doing here? Hell get into trouble, hed shout.
Paul, love, the cat is just minding his own business. He isnt a menace, Id say, hoping to smooth things over.
Laura, I cant stand him. Can you give him away? he asked.
No way. Hes mine now, I answered, and over the months Mittens grew into a handsome, plush cat.
On Saturday I tackled the usual deepclean. Paul had left for a Thursday business trip to Leeds, saying he wouldnt be back until Sunday. I washed the floors, dusted every surface, and while sorting through a pile of papers that Mittens had knocked over, I found a slim folder tucked behind the wardrobe. Inside were receipts for hotel bookings, shortbreak trips, expensive jewellery, airline tickets, and a car purchase agreement. The seller was listed as Natalie, but the payments were all in Pauls name.
I flipped through the documents, noticing Pauls scribbled notes on several of them. He habitually kept receipts, later submitting them through the company to reimburse himself. It seemed hed been stashing personal splurges among business papers.
A wave of nausea hit me as I stared at the evidence. I wanted to crumple the pages, shout, call Paul immediately. I held back, and Mittens padded over, batting at the folder and then curling up, purring a soothing tune that steadied my nerves.
Youre right, Mittens. I need to think before I act, I whispered, copying every receipt and document.
That evening I went on social media, searching for the owner of the car. A young womans profile appeared, posing beside a brandnew red hatchback with the caption gift from my love. No picture of the boyfriend, just a side view. I recognised Pauls build in the photo. The truth hit hard: Paul had a mistress and had been using our joint finances for her pleasures.
He returned on Sunday night, as usual cheerful, bearing more flowers.
Why arent you greeting your husband at the door? he joked as he stepped in.
My heads aching, I feel feverish, I muttered, my eyes red and watery.
He ate, and I retired to the spare bedroom. Should I call a doctor? he asked.
No, Ill rest. Ive already taken the meds, I replied.
He fell asleep, his phone abandoned on the kitchen counter. I picked it up out of habit and, for the first time, scrolled through his messages. The suspicion was confirmed. That night hed texted his loverwhom he called Sunshinesaying, Cant wait to see you on Tuesday.
On Monday I sent Paul off to work, telling him I was under the weather and would stay home. I gathered the documents and booked an appointment with a solicitor.
He filed for divorce and a division of assets. I told him, I think Ill spend some time at the cottage while I recover. I kept my work remote, commuting only once a week from the city.
When the papers reached me, the shock hit like a bolt on a clear day. Paul rushed over, pleading, What are you doing? Weve been together for years. Ive done everything for you.
Ive fallen out of love, I said simply. Well meet in court, Paul.
I didnt bring up the mistress. In court, when the receipts and travel expenses were laid out, Paul looked lost.
The judge asked, Did you really spend those sums on a lover? Did you buy her a car?
Yes I did, Paul admitted, embarrassed.
My solicitor secured a fair split of the business, half the marital assets, and even reclaimed half of the money Paul had spent on his affair, deeming it joint family funds. Paul accepted. He kept the flat; I took the cottage and a tidy sum of cash. The cars stayed as they wereeach of us kept our own.
Before the divorce was final, I transferred some suppliers to a new company and launched my own venture, handling both sales and finance now. Mittens and I are managing just fine; business is thriving.
Paul is furious that his exwife has become a competitor. His finances have taken a hit, and his new fling no longer satisfies. He drifts from one date to another, returning to an empty flat that feels more like a husk than a home.
Life moves on, and Im learning to enjoy the quiet moments with Mittens, my cottage, and the fresh start Ive built.
