**The Love is Gone**
*Diary Entry – 23rd March*
“Why so quiet and lost in thought tonight?” asked Henry, sitting at the kitchen table as the clock ticked toward midnight. His wife, Evelyn, said nothing, only sliding a reheated plate of dinner toward him.
“Late again?” she murmured.
“Extra work… hoping for a bonus by quarter’s end.”
Henry, a thirty-five-year-old banker, still ruggedly handsome, had just trudged home. His family waited—Evelyn and their three daughters: six, four, and one. Lately, and by *lately* he meant the last two years, he dreaded coming back. Lingering at the office, wandering Manchester’s streets… anything to delay the chaos awaiting him—shrieking toddlers, nappies, onesies, midnight wake-ups, and Evelyn, always drained, always wrapped in that tatty dressing gown, hair scraped back, shadows bruising her eyes.
Seven years ago, he’d married the radiant beauty from his department. Who’d have guessed marriage would become such a millstone? The first years *were* happy—their eldest’s birth, weekends spent easing Evelyn’s load so she could sneak off to the salon, nails done, hair bright. Then, barely a year later, she was pregnant again. “Two in quick succession,” they’d agreed, “get it over with.” But the second girl wailed nonstop till six months, leaving Henry hollow-eyed at his desk. Then calm—blissful calm—until nursery fees kicked in, Evelyn returned to work… and another *bloody* surprise.
He’d argued. “We can’t manage another,” he’d pleaded. “There’s clinics—safe, quick—”
But she’d wept, raged. He folded, secretly hoping for a son.
The pregnancy was hell. Hospital stays. Henry juggled school runs, laundry, hoovering—no help from her family up in Newcastle or his ailing mum in Brighton.
The third? Another restless babe, clinging to Evelyn day and night.
Slowly, home became a place to avoid.
*What have these seven years been?* he’d brood. *The first year—cinema dates, weekends in Cornwall. Now? Nappies and screaming.*
He no longer wanted her—not like that. Evenings, he’d slink in after bedtime, avoiding her gaze. Pitied her, yes. But pitied himself more.
At work, colleagues bragged about Tenerife getaways. “When’s your lot seeing the sea?” they’d ask. He’d shrug. How could he admit he dreamed of bolting—anywhere, *anywhere*—for weeks?
“Henry… I’m pregnant,” Evelyn whispered, sinking onto a chair.
His spoon froze mid-air.
“Have you lost your *mind*? I don’t even remember the last time we—”
“Twelve weeks… too late to—”
“You’re *mad*! Look at yourself—when’s the last time you *tried*? You swore you were on the pill! Christ, you’re like a ghost. I can’t do this. I’m leaving. Keep the house, the lot.”
“Where will you go? What about us?” A single tear tracked down her cheek.
“Taking the car. Moving in with Mum. Can’t *stand* this.”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
*No nightmare could’ve prepared me. This isn’t life—it’s penance.*
**Lesson learnt:** Love curdles when duty smothers it. But walking away? That’s the coward’s escape.
