**Diary Entry**
I’ve kept the truth hidden, and now I fear I’ll lose my husband.
My name is Emily Whitaker, and I live in a quiet market town called Alchester, nestled in the rolling hills of Oxfordshire. A year ago, my life became a tangle of lies, fear, and desperate choices. I was barely nineteen when I fell pregnant by a lad I thought was my first love—Oliver. But the moment he found out, he turned cold, muttered, “Sort it out yourself,” and vanished abroad, leaving me alone and terrified. Time slipped away, and panic set in—too late for an abortion, too ashamed to tell my father, a stern man who’d see only disgrace. I had nowhere to turn.
In despair, I buried my shame under the guise of marriage. My neighbour, William—a divorced man a good decade older—caught my eye. He wasn’t handsome, but he was well-off and kind. I’d noticed him watching me before but never gave it a thought. Now, it was my only chance. I played the part—smiling, laughing at his jokes, letting him believe I cared. When he invited me for tea, I didn’t hesitate. That very night, I let things go further—a choice I didn’t regret, because it was my lifeline.
Within a week, I pressed him: “Let’s get married.” William hesitated, saying he wanted to know me better, but time wasn’t on my side—my waistline was betraying me. I convinced myself I could pass the child off as his, pulling him toward the altar. My parents were stunned when I announced the wedding, but they only sighed and said nothing. We married quietly—no grand ceremony, no white dress. A month later, I beamed at him: “You’re going to be a father.”
His eyes darkened with doubt. “Are you sure?” he asked softly. I laughed, hugged him, and said, “A woman always knows,” thinking I’d won. My plan had worked. In the months that followed, William doted on me—painting the nursery, buying a cot, tiny clothes. I grew fond of his steady kindness. When our son was born, he met us at the hospital with flowers, studying the baby’s face. I thought I’d done it.
But something was off. At home, he grew distant. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” he’d ask. I babbled about the birth, thinking it might ease his mind. I believed my secret was safe forever. Yet that first night back, he didn’t come to bed—he slept on the sofa. I told myself he was being considerate, but as days passed, his warmth faded. He’d smile at our son but avoid me like I was a ghost.
The silence gnawed at me. I needed his touch, his voice, anything. Finally, I asked, “What’s wrong?” And then the truth surfaced like a stone from deep water. William had known all along. His first marriage ended because he couldn’t have children—doctors had confirmed it years ago. He’d waited for me to confess, to trust him. He’d have loved us both, despite the lie. But my deceit built a wall he couldn’t cross.
**Lesson learned:** Truth, no matter how hard, is the only foundation love can stand on. Lies crumble, and with them, everything else.
