**Diary Entry**
“Emily! We need to have a serious talk…”
My husband barged in the moment he stepped through the door, still in his coat and shoes, blurting out, “Emily! We need to have a serious talk…” Then, without even pausing for breath, his already wide eyes growing even wider, he blurted, “Ive fallen in love!”
“Blimey,” I thought. “So, the midlife crisis has finally come knocking. Well, hello there.” But I stayed quiet, just staring at himreally looking at him for the first time in years. Five? Six? Maybe even eight?
They say your life flashes before your eyes when youre about to die. Well, mine didnt, but our entire marriage did. Wed met the usual wayonline. Id shaved two years off my age, and hed added an inch to his height. A little harmless fibbing, just enough to squeeze into each others search criteria. And somehow, against the odds, wed found each other.
I cant even remember who messaged first, but I do recall his letter wasnt crassjust self-deprecating and funny, which I liked. At thirty-three, with what Id call an average face, I knew my odds on the dating scene werent brilliant. If I wasnt in the last row, I was damn near close. So, I made a plan for our first date: bite my tongue, listen more than I spoke, wear something lacy, and tuck a homemade scone and a Jane Austen novel into my handbag.
Surprisingly, it went well. Turns out, dressing the part helps. Things moved fast after thatsix months of whirlwind romance, my parents nudging (read: nagging) about grandchildren, and before I knew it, hed proposed. We rushed the introductions, agreed on a small wedding, and booked the first available date at the registry office. No fuss, no cold feet.
Life was good. Our marriage was warmnot scorching, but comfortable. No dramatic rows, just steady affection. And after a few weeks, the act dropped. He ditched the “sensitive, romantic, teetotal handyman” façade and settled into being himself: a straightforward, hardworking bloke in joggers.
Me? I unclenched more slowly. The whole “sexy-but-submissive domestic goddess” bit was exhausting, and pregnancy sped up the process. Within a year, Id swapped tight dresses for a cosy dressing gown, relieved to be done with the charade. The fact neither of us ran screaming proved wed made the right choice.
Two kids later, life got messier. Our little boat rockedsometimes violentlybut it never capsized. When the storm passed, wed steady ourselves and sail on. Grandparents helped where they could, careers inched forward, and we made time for holidays, hobbies, and each other. All very normal.
Twelve years in, and not once had he strayed. Not even a hint of flirtation. Not that Id have minded muchIve never been the jealous type. The idea of him flirting was laughable, honestly. Early on, hed given up on traditional compliments, realising he was rubbish at them. Instead, hed just stare. Wide-eyed, like a startled owl. Over time, Id learned to read his emotions by how round his eyes gotawe, approval, confusion, outrage.
So when I pictured him flirting now, all I could imagine was him goggling at some poor woman like a madman. My throat went dry. I forced a grin and croaked, “So whats her name, then?”
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Fumbling at his coat, he stammered, “Whhow did youhow did you know its a rat?! Bloody hell, Em. I just I saw her and couldnt help myself. Look at her! So soft, so sweetjust like you!”
And from inside his jacket, he pulled out a tiny grey rat with pink, translucent ears, a twitching nose, and beady black eyes.
**Lesson learned:** After twelve years, you think you know a man. Then he comes home with a rat.
