**Diary Entry**
*March 15th*
Edward barely glanced at me as he adjusted his tie before the mirror. *”Dont forget to make dinner presentable tonight,”* he said, his voice clipped. *”The boss is coming, and I want to make a good impression.”*
I nodded silently, spreading butter on my toast. My throat tightened when he added, *”And do try to look decent. Honestly, its embarrassing to be seen with you.”*
The door slammed behind him, leaving the lingering scent of his expensive cologne and the bitterness of unspoken words. I caught my reflection in the kettleforty-three, fine lines around my eyes, greying roots I never seemed to find time to dye. When had it happened? When had I gone from the girl Edward once adoredthe one who made him laughto the exhausted housewife he couldnt stand to introduce to his colleagues?
The flat was silent, as usual. Our eighteen-year-old son, Oliver, had left for university; fourteen-year-old Emily was staying at a friends. Just me, the kitchen, and the endless list of chores: laundry, groceries, cleaning, and that *”presentable dinner”* Edward demanded.
At the shop, I mechanically tossed mince, vegetables, and the overpriced wine Edward liked to serve into my basket. Ahead of me at the till, a young woman rocked a fussing baby, whispering something tender. I remembered those daysholding my own children while Edward wrapped his arms around me and murmured, *”Weve got the best family in the world.”*
What changed? When had he stopped touching me? When had he last said he loved me?
Back home, sorting groceries, I found old photos spilled from the drawer. There we were at graduation, laughing, his hand in mine. Our weddingme in white, his eyes full of wonder. The day Oliver was bornEdward kissing my forehead, pure joy on his face. Emilys first steps, both of us cheering her on.
Where had that happiness gone? Lost between mortgage payments and career ambitions? Between sleepless nights with sick children and endless housework?
I started cookingroast in the oven, salad, appetisersmovements practised over years. Then the phone rang.
*”Claire? Its Sarah.”*
Her voice was a lifeline in the monotony.
*”Sarah! How are you?”*
*”Dont ask,”* she laughed. *”Finalising the divorce.”*
*”What happened?”*
*”Nothing drastic. Just realised I was tired of being invisible in my own life. Fancy coffee? A proper chat?”*
*”Cant. Edwards bringing his boss tonight.”*
*”Again? Claire, when did you last do something for yourself?”*
I hesitated. Honestly, I couldnt remember.
*”Its different, Sarah. Ive got responsibilities.”*
*”So did I. But heres the thingwhile you live someone elses life, yours passes you by.”*
After we hung up, the weight in my chest grew heavier.
By six, the table was set, my best dress on, hair done. I checked the mirrorpresentable enough. Why did Edward say otherwise?
The guests arrived punctually: Edwards boss, Mr. Thompson, his wife, and another colleague. I smiled, served, made conversation. Then Mrs. Thompson asked, *”And what do you do, dear?”*
*”Shes a homemaker,”* Edward cut in, almost apologetic.
*”Oh! Did you work before?”*
*”I was an accountant”*
*”Years ago,”* Edward interrupted. *”Once the kids came, we agreed shed stay home.”*
*We* agreed? I remembered the truth: maternity leave, then his mothers illness, then Emily. When the children grew older, hed said, *”Why work? I earn enough. Just take proper care of the house.”*
And I had. Cleaning, cooking, errandsdays blurring into one. Meanwhile, Edward climbed the corporate ladder.
*”A friend of mine was a homemaker,”* Mrs. Thompson mused. *”Now she runs a florist. Says shes never been happier.”*
*”Not everyones cut out for business,”* Edward smirked. *”Claires content as she is.”*
Content? Something inside me twisted. When had he ever asked?
The evening dragged. After the guests left, praising the food, Edward was smug. *”Made an impression. Mr. Thompson said Ive got a brilliant wife.”*
*”Brilliant homemaker, you mean?”*
*”Whats your problem? You stay homeso take care of the home.”*
*”Edward, remember what we dreamed of when we married? Travel, me learning French”*
*”Were adults now, Claire. Obligations come first.”*
*”So my life is just obligations?”*
*”Your life is our family. Isnt that enough?”*
I wanted to scream that it wasntthat I was suffocatingbut I stayed silent. As always.
The next morning, Edward left without a word. Over coffee, I flipped through old photos, pausing at one of me holding a diploma from a finance course. Back then, Id wanted to grow.
The doorbell ranga courier with roses. The card read: *”Thank you for last night. Youre a wonderful hostess. Best, Mr. Thompson.”*
When had Edward last bought me flowers?
Later, Emily called. *”Mum, can I stay at Lucys? Were seeing a play tomorrow.”*
*”What about schoolwork?”*
*”Mum, its Sunday!”*
Id lost track of time.
That evening, Edward locked himself in his study. When I knocked, he snapped, *”Later.”*
I ate alone, cleared up, went to bed. He came in late, turned his back. Not even a *goodnight*.
Sunday morning, I woke to an empty bed. Edward had gone to his parents without inviting me. *”Youd be bored,”* hed said.
Wasnt I bored here?
I dressed in the bright sundress Edward called *”too young,”* did my makeup, and stepped outsideno shopping list, no chores.
The park was alive: families, couples, elderly pairs strolling arm in arm. I watched them, wonderingwhen had Edward and I last laughed together?
*”Claire? Claire Bennett!”*
I turned. Andrew, a schoolmate I hadnt seen in fifteen years, beamed at me.
*”Andrew! How are you?”*
We talked for hours. Hed divorced, moved back, worked as a travel photographer. *”Remember how you dreamed of seeing Paris?”*
*”Childish dreams,”* I waved it off.
*”Says who? Im forty-five and finally went last year. Dreams dont expire, Claire.”*
He invited me to his gallery opening.
At home, Edward was livid. *”Where were you? The house is a mess!”*
*A few dishes in the sink?*
*”Edward, I needed a break.”*
*”From what? Sitting at home?”*
*”From living on your schedule!”*
*”My schedule? Im the one working to support you!”*
*”I want to live, not just exist!”*
That evening, I went to the exhibition anyway. Andrews photosvibrant, full of lifestirred something in me.
*”Youre sad,”* he observed. *”Trouble at home?”*
I didnt answer, but he understood. *”Lifes too short for unhappiness.”*
Edward was waiting when I got back. *”You lied. Sarah said you werent there.”*
*”I was at an exhibition. With Andrew. We bumped into each other.”*
His face darkened. *”Meeting men behind my back?”*
*”Dont be ridiculous!”*
He grabbed my shoulders. *”Youre my wife. You stay home like a proper woman should!”* Shoving me away, I hit the wall. Pain shot through me.
The next day, he pretended nothing happened.
When Andrew called, I hesitated. *”Im fine.”*
*”You dont sound fine.”*
*”I cant talk.”*
*”Call me if you need to.”*
Days passed. Edward monitored my every movewhere I went, who I spoke to. Then Emily came home with a black eye.
*”Some girls said Dads a tyrant, and youre a doormat,”* she muttered. *”I punched one.”*
*”Emily”*
*”Mum, I remember you happy. When did you stop being you?”*
That night, Edward yelled over a missing yoghurt. *”One simple thing!”*
Something snapped. *”Im tired of being treated like staff! Tired of being invisible!”*
He scoffed
