**Diary Entry – 22nd June**
It’s hard to make life-changing decisions in a single stroke.
For the summer holidays, Emily and her husband, James, took the children to her parents’ cottage just outside the city. They visited every weekend—sometimes she went alone. The cottage was only a few miles away, so if James was working on Saturday, Emily could catch the bus straight after her office hours on Friday.
She might not have gone every weekend, but she missed the kids, and her father had recently suffered a stroke. Her mother needed help tending the garden, and Emily wanted to be there. That Friday, she planned to leave work and head straight to the cottage.
“Jamie, I’m off to the cottage after work. There’s food in the fridge—help yourself. Come fetch me on Sunday, yeah? Odd you’re working Saturday, though.”
“Absolute nightmare at the office,” James muttered. “The boss insists on overtime—promised extra pay.”
Emily was the head accountant at her firm. That Friday, she rushed through a report, made a mess of it, and sent it off to regional management without double-checking.
The next afternoon, her boss, Mr. Thompson, called.
“Emily, what on earth did you do with that report? Head office is furious. Fix it now, or your bonus is gone.”
“I’m at the cottage, sir. Can it wait till—”
“I don’t care where you are. Sort it out.” His shouting was so loud her mother heard it from across the room.
“Was that your boss?” her mother asked.
“Mr. Thompson. I botched the report yesterday rushing to leave. Right, I’d better go.” She kissed her thirteen-year-old son and ten-year-old daughter goodbye. “Be good. See you next weekend.”
Back in the city, she headed straight to the office, called security to let her in, and hunched over her desk. Scanning the report, she finally spotted two glaring errors.
“How did I miss these? They’re blindingly obvious.” She cursed her haste.
By evening, she’d resent the report, locked up, and started home. “Jamie’ll be surprised to see me,” she thought, strolling leisurely. “Odd how he’s been lately—always on his phone, distant. We should talk. The kids aren’t home—good time for it.”
Approaching their terraced house, she spotted the kitchen light on. “He’s back early.”
Her pulse quickened as she climbed to the third floor. Soft music—the kind James hated when she played it—drifted from their flat. Strange. She eased the door open and froze. A pair of sandals—familiar, but whose?—lay discarded in the hall.
She set down her keys and peered into the dim living room, lit only by a wall lamp. The music played on. Then she saw them—two silhouettes on the balcony, smoking.
“Claire,” she realised, stomach lurching. Her friend. Claire had been visiting often lately, always when Emily was home. They’d had wine, chatted. Now her hands shook as she crept closer.
“Jamie, when are you going to tell Emily about us?” Claire’s voice carried through the cracked balcony door.
James sounded irritable. “Not this again. We agreed you wouldn’t push me. I haven’t decided yet—”
Through the curtain, Emily saw James in his boxers, Claire in his shirt.
“And when *will* you decide?” Emily snapped, yanking the curtain aside.
James dropped his cigarette; Claire yelped as it singed her foot. “Bloody hell! You were supposed to come back *tomorrow*!” Claire spat, storming inside. James stood silent.
Emily stared, numb.
“Em, you could’ve called,” James mumbled.
“Must I *call* before coming home now?”
Claire sneered, shameless. James finally told her to leave. She slammed the door on her way out.
“Em, Claire’s nothing serious—just a bit of fun. I’d never leave the family.”
“You think we’re still a family?”
“Don’t start. Men do this sometimes. Look at you—when did you last dress up? Get your hair done? We used to go on holidays—”
“We have *kids*. My dad’s had a stroke. Your salary’s halved—oh, now I see why. Funding *her*.” She felt sick. “I can’t even look at you.”
Her head spun. She grabbed her bag and fled, not even noticing the rain until she was soaked, tears mixing with the downpour. The office was her only refuge.
She slept fitfully on the office sofa until Mr. Thompson shook her awake.
“Emily, what the devil’s going on? Security said you’ve been in and out all night!”
She broke down. He sighed, handed her water. “Come home with me. My wife, Margaret, will sort you out.”
Margaret, who’d once forgiven *his* affair, listened kindly over breakfast. “Will you take him back?”
“Never.”
“You’ll have to—for the kids. I did.”
Emily said nothing.
Back at the cottage, her mother knew at once something was wrong. Mr. Thompson later called, granting her two weeks’ leave.
She told her mother everything. “I’m divorcing him. I can’t forgive this.”
The kids, overhearing, sided with her. James called daily, begging forgiveness. He visited, claiming he missed the children. They hesitated until Emily said, “He’s your dad. He loves you.”
He kept coming—helping her parents, talking to her mother, pleading for reconciliation.
“I can’t tell her what to do,” her mother said.
Emily had the divorce papers ready but hadn’t filed them. Something held her back. Half a life together—could she really end it? She still loved him.
Some decisions can’t be made in haste.
**Lesson learned:** Betrayal cuts deepest when it’s from two people you trust. But anger fades. What’s left—love, history, children—isn’t so easily discarded.
