**Diary Entry**
I found myself staring at the empty dining table again. The clock had just struck nine, and stillnot a call or text from Victor. *Another late night at work,* I thought, though I wasnt fooling myself.
Over the last month, these “delays” had become routine. At first, it was once every fortnight. Then weekly. Now, it seemed my husband had given up entirely on coming home on time.
I remembered exactly how it started. Victor claimed there was a crisis at the officean urgent project, tight deadlines. I believed him and waited up, night after night.
Then the excuses grew absurd. On Monday, he called to say he was trapped in the car park because a snowplough had blocked the exit. I stayed silent but studied him carefully. He worked in an underground car parkno snowplough could reach it.
On Wednesday, hed had an “important meeting,” though his company hardly ever held them. And if they did, it was always on Zoom in the morning.
Yesterdays excuse took the prize: hed stayed late because he had an upset stomach and spent over an hour in the loo.
I wasnt stupid. I knew Victor was hiding something. I didnt want to drag the truth out of himbut what *was* it?
“How are you feeling?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay calm and caring.
Victor, whod just walked in, collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh.
“Not great,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach. “Had lunch from a dodgy buffetprobably food poisoning.”
“Oh, awful. I cant imagine how rotten you must feel,” I said, watching his reaction closely. “Here, let me get you some medicine. Itll help.”
“No!” Victor jolted upright, then winced and lay back down, realising hed nearly shouted.
“Whats wrong?” I feigned surprise.
“The lads at work gave me some pills. Cant remember the name, but they helped.”
“Right. Fine, if you say so,” I shrugged. “But next time, remember the nameyou never know what youve taken.”
“Good point,” Victor smiled tightly. “Ill shower and sleep it off. Still feel rough.”
“Of course,” I said, brushing his cheek before leaving the room.
The second the bathroom door clicked shut, I dashed to the kitchen. My hands trembled as I picked up his phone. Messages, calls, socialsnothing suspicious. Then I checked the banking app.
*”Transfer: £850 to Angela P.”*
The words burned into my mind, and my whole body tensed. The shower stopped. I closed the app in a panic and put the phone back.
*Dont panic, dont panic.* The name echoed in my head. *Who the hell is Angela P.?*
A colleague? His accountant?
That night, sleep wouldnt come. I twisted in our too-big bed, now cold and empty beside me. Victor slept soundly, oblivious to the storm in my head. Eventually, I drifted offonly for nightmares to twist my thoughts into broken, jagged pieces.
I woke with a jolt.
*Angela.* The name stabbed my mind like a knife. Victors exthe one he rarely spoke of, dismissing her as a “teenage fling.”
I sat up, sweat chilling my back. Suddenly, it all made sense: the late nights, the terrible excuses, the “food poisoning.” And now thisa small fortune sent to her.
I clutched my head, trying to steady my shaking hands.
*”Teenage fling,”* my mind taunted.
I didnt sleep again. By dawn, Id pieced together the puzzle.
Angela was his ex, no question. But why was she back in his life after all these years? And why was he sending her money?
I slipped out of bed quietly. In the kitchen, I made coffee and grabbed a notepad. I needed a plan.
*What do I do?* The question hammered in my skull.
Confront Victor directly? Hed liea simple chat wouldnt drag out the truth.
Hire a detective? Too extreme. I wouldnt even know where to start.
Find Angela myself?
I couldnt wait. Every day wasted made things worse. But how could I act without Victor noticing?
I started with the obvioushis social media. Maybe there were clues: old photos, memories, mutual friends
I opened my laptop and scrolled through his profile. Most pictures were recentfamily, work, holidays. But at the very end, I found a handful of old ones. One showed a younger Victor, hair longer, standing next to a girl. I leaned in, studying her face.
Angela. The ex hed barely mentioned.
I shut the laptop and took a deep breath. I had two choices: look the other way and keep living this lie, risking worse to come, or face the truth, no matter how much it hurt.
The answer was clear. I *needed* to know. And I wouldwhatever it took.
That evening, I sat in the lounge, twisting my phone in my hands. Id rehearsed what to saybut then the door opened.
“We need to talk,” Victor said bluntly from the doorway. His voice was strained.
“I was about to say the same,” I began
And then, I realised something. Sometimes, forgiveness isnt about forgetting. Its about choosing to move forward togethershadows and all.
