**Diary Entry**
He said it todayhe married me because I was “convenient.”
“And what of it?” He shrugged, as if Id asked why the sky was blue. “Is that so bad?”
“Youre wearing that old dressing gown again?” Edward shot me a look of disgust while fastening his cufflinks, like a knight adjusting his armour before battle.
I froze, the coffee cup in my hands suddenly scalding my fingers. The steam had long faded, leaving the surface dark and still, reflecting the ceiling like a broken mirror.
“Hes convenient.”
“Exactly,” he scoffed, straightening his tie in the mirror. “Like everything about you.”
I lowered my gaze. The coffee was cold now.
“Ed, you”
“What?” He jingled his keys, the metal clinking against his wedding band.
“Nothing.”
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the china shelf.
***
We met at work. Mea quiet, mousy accountant who tucked her hair into a messy knot. Hima loud, self-assured manager whose laughter echoed through the corridors. Edward courted me beautifully: roses with dewdrops on the petals, candlelit dinners where he ordered my steak medium-rare without asking what I actually liked.
“Youre not the type to fuss over little things, are you?” he asked on our third date, smoothing the napkin on my lap.
“No,” I smiled, ignoring the warning bells.
“Good. My ex was always making scenes”
I brushed it off. Then came the wedding, the children, the house. Everything as it should be.
Exceptwhen I tried on an off-the-shoulder dress, hed say, “Stick to something simpler. Thats not you.”
Or when I applied lipstick, hed mutter, “Why bother? Youre only staying home.”
Once, I bought a new perfumelight, floral. He wrinkled his nose. “Smells like a cheap shop. Trying to copy Margaret from accounting?”
I never wore it again.
For my birthday, he bought me a vacuum cleaner.
“The old one screeches,” he explained as I unboxed it. “Youre always sighing while cleaning.”
I thanked him. Then stared out the window until the children called me to cut the cake.
But I stayed silent. Because he was, by all accounts, a good husband. Didnt hit me, didnt drink, brought home the money.
Wasnt that enough?
***
“Did you ever love me?”
The same evening. The same conversation. Edward glanced away as if checking the latch on the window.
“Of course Youre the perfect wife.”
“Thats not an answer.”
He sighed like I was asking him to explain algebra.
“Emily, must you overcomplicate things? Were fine.”
“Fine?!” My voice trembled, not from tears but from the fury finally breaking free. “You said today you married me because I was convenient!”
“And?” He shrugged. “Is that so terrible?”
I studied himthe tan on his neck from tennis with colleagues, not me. The crease between his brows from irritation, not worry.
“What about Charlotte?”
His face twitched, like someone had tugged an invisible string.
“Whats she got to do with this?”
“You loved her.”
“Yes.” The word was sharp, carrying more feeling than all our years together. “But she wasnt wife material.”
Something inside me snappedquietly, like a broken heel. You could still walk, but never the same.
“So I was the obedient substitute.”
“Stop being dramatic.” He waved me off like a buzzing fly. “We have children. A home. What more do you want?”
***
I hesitated.
Maybe he was right. Maybe love was a luxury, and family mattered more? I stood by the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass. My fingerprints marked where Id leaned so often, as if waiting for the world outside to give me an answer.
And Edward? Edward carried on as if nothing had changed.
A week later, seeing my silence, he dropped the pretence entirely.
“Pasta again?” He poked at his plate like it held evidence of my failure. “Couldnt even add seasoning.”
“You said you hated spicy,” I replied, my voice hollow.
“So what?” He pushed the plate away. “Charlotte always cooked”
I stood abruptly. The chair screeched, leaving another scratch on the flooranother crack in this house, another unseen fracture.
“Miss Charlotte? Then go to her!”
“Dont be ridiculous.” His laugh cut deeper than any shout. “Where would I go? You know Im comfortable with you.”
Thats when I understood.
He wasnt trying to keep menot because he trusted my love, but because he trusted my obedience.
I started noticing it everywhere.
The way he no longer corrected my “wrong” outfitsjust walked past, unseeing. The way his gaze slid over me, like I was furniture. The way his “calm” stretches lasted weeksno fights, no complaints, just nothing.
And the worst part? That nothing was louder than any scream.
Clutching the kitchen counter, I realised: he wasnt even angry. He was just waiting for me to accept it. Like Id accepted the vacuum instead of a gift. Like Id accepted giving up perfume. Like Id accepted not being “the type to fuss.”
Then something inside me flipped.
Not pain. Not ragefreedom.
Because if someone doesnt love you but still gets angry, at least you exist.
But when even the anger stops?
Youre already gone.
***
A month later, I filed for divorce.
Edward didnt believe it at first. He found me in the kitchen, packing the childrens things into boxes, and frozelike I was a stranger.
“Youre serious?” Uncertainty flickered in his voice for the first time in years.
I kept folding tiny jumpers.
“Yes.”
“Over nothing?” He stepped forward; my shoulders tensed.
“Its not nothing,” I said softly. “Im not furniture.”
He laughedsharp, nervous.
“Oh, here we go! You always exaggerate.”
I finally looked at him. His face was painfully familiar, yet different nowtight lips, narrowed eyes. He was furious, but not because he was losing me. Because his convenient world was cracking.
“Im not exaggerating,” I said. “Im just tired of being convenient.”
He hesitated, then snatched his keys.
“Fine! You think Ill struggle?” He eyed the boxes. “You cant even cook properly.”
I flinchedthe old sting. Once, those words wouldve made me doubt myself. Now? They rang hollow.
“Maybe,” I agreed. “But someone else disagrees.”
His face twisted.
“Ah, so thats it! Theres someone else, isnt there?” He smirked. “Look at yourselfwhod even want you?”
The old ache clenched inside me. I almost said, “Youre right, Im sorry,” like I had a hundred times before.
But then I realised: I didnt want to.
“I do,” I said firmly. “I want me.”
He stared. Clearly, he hadnt expected that.
“Youve lost your mind. What about the children? Or are you too selfish to care?”
I closed my eyes for a second. The childrenI thought of them every minute.
“Theyll learn what self-respect looks like,” I replied.
“Rubbish!” He waved a hand. “Youre throwing away a home, securityfor what? A whim?”
I studied him and suddenly understood: he truly didnt get it. To him, it really was “nothing.”
“To you, yes,” I said. “To meno.”
He turned away, keys tapping impatiently against his palm.
“Fine. Youll regret this.”
On the day I collected the last of my things, he asked suddenly:
“You really think youll find better?”
I paused at the door, the breeze brushing my face.
“Better?” I echoed. “I dont know. But at least someone wholl see menot an empty space.”
He said nothing.
I stepped outside, where the air smelled like rain and freedom.
***
Two years passed.
I married a man who kissed my shoulder each morning, even when I grumbled it was too early. Who whispered, “Youre beautiful,” when I was in an old dressing gown, hair tangled, exhaustion under my eyes. Who once saw that same vacuum on sale, laughed, and bought me peonies insteadjust because their colour matched my lips.
I started wearing perfume again. Lipstick. Dresses with open shoulders. And every time I caught my husbands admiring gaze, warmth spread through my chestlike something long frozen was finally thawing.
And Edward?
Once, I bumped into him at a café. He sat alone, sipping coffee, scrolling through his phone. A slightly worn photo of our children lay on the
