**Diary Entry – 10th March**

“Where’s my car?” Emily stood in the garage doorway, staring at the empty spot where her blue Vauxhall usually sat.

“Don’t start shouting,” William muttered, barely looking up from the workbench where he was fiddling with some tools. “Lent it to Sarah for the day.”

“You *what*?” Her voice sharpened. “Without asking me?”

“What’s the fuss? She’s your friend. Her car’s in the shop, and she’s got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Just helping out.”

Emily’s face burned. They’d married eight years ago—she was forty-two then, he fifty. At that age, she’d assumed people knew better than to disrespect each other.

“William, it’s *my* car. I bought it. I pay for it. I drive it!”

“So?” He finally glanced at her. “Bit stingy, aren’t you? What’s yours is mine in a marriage.”

“*Ours*?” She almost laughed, but a lump rose in her throat. “I’ve got work tomorrow. How am I supposed to get there?”

“Take the bus. One day won’t kill you.”

“The bus? Two hours each way? Have you lost your mind?”

He shrugged and went back to his tools.

“Sarah promised it’d be back by evening. You’ll survive.”

Emily stormed out, hands shaking. She dialled Sarah’s number.

“Sarah? It’s Emily. Listen, I need my car tomorrow. Can you take a taxi to your appointment?”

“Em, love! Sorry, but I’ve already got plans—not just the doctor, but Mum’s at the cottage alone. She needs help.”

“That’s *my* car. I didn’t say you could borrow it.”

“But William said you wouldn’t mind.”

“I *do* mind. Bring it back. Now.”

A pause.

“Don’t be petty. We’re mates. It’s just a day.”

“*Petty*? I lent you money three times when your pay was late. Brought you groceries when you were ill. And I’m *petty*?”

“Why bring that up? I paid you back!”

“Not all of it. Five hundred quid’s still missing.”

“That was for feeding your cat when you were in hospital!”

Emily closed her eyes. That wasn’t how she remembered it. Sarah had just asked for time—she’d never mentioned the cat.

“Return the car by tonight. Or I’m reporting it stolen.”

“Do what you want,” Sarah snapped, hanging up.

Emily slumped onto the sofa. Minutes later, William trudged in.

“Why’d you have a go at Sarah?” he said, bypassing hello. “She rang me in tears.”

“She *rang you*? When?”

“Just now. Says you called her petty, dredged up old debts. Shame on you, Em.”

“*Shame on me*? It’s *my* car! I decide who drives it!”

“Course you do. But we’re family. What’s mine is yours.”

“Then why didn’t you *ask*? Why decide for me?”

He hesitated, then flopped into his armchair and turned on the telly.

“Knew you’d say no. You’ve changed, Em. Not the woman I married.”

The words stung. She *had* changed. Eight years ago, she’d been soft—eager to please, terrified of being alone after her first divorce. But this car? She’d sold her dad’s old fishing boat to buy it. Her first car, a dream since she was twenty.

“William, if Sarah asked for your motorbike, would you hand it over?”

“Bike’s different. That’s a man’s machine.”

“And a car’s… what? A woman’s?”

“Cars are for everyone. Bikes are for blokes.”

The argument was pointless. She cooked dinner in silence.

Eight years of William deciding everything—holidays, furniture, friends. At first, it felt like care. Now? She was just an accessory.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“Not hungry,” he called back.

She ate alone, then lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He came to bed late, turning his back pointedly.

Morning came too soon. A 5 AM start, two and a half hours on buses. Her boss frowned when she arrived late.

“Car trouble?”

“In the shop,” she lied.

All day, she stewed. When had she become someone who lied to cover for her husband’s disrespect?

That evening, her Vauxhall was back. Relief faded to anger.

“Sarah returned it,” William said. “She’s sorry.”

“Brilliant.”

“Don’t sulk. It’s daft, this.”

“*Daft*? You cost me five hours on buses! Made me late! My boss thinks I’m unreliable!”

“Didn’t think. Sorry.”

“*Think*? Do you ever, before deciding for me?”

He shrugged. “Was thinking of helping people.”

“And me?”

“You’re tough. You cope.”

She buried her face in her hands. *Tough*. Yes, she worked, paid bills, kept the house. And he treated her things like his own, because she’d “cope.”

“William, what if I lent your bike out without asking?”

“Don’t be daft. It’s *mine*.”

“And the car’s *whose*?”

“Yours, but… we’re *family*!”

“Family respects each other. Not one dictating to the other.”

He sighed, sitting beside her. “Sarah’s your mate. Just helping.”

“Help by asking. Or pay for her taxi.”

“Knew you’d refuse. You’ve got hard, Em.”

“Hard?” She met his eyes. “Or just *done* being taken for granted?”

A fortnight later, he lent the car again—to his mate Dave, whose van broke down.

“Dave hauls freight,” William said. “Can’t let clients down.”

“And I can let *my* job down?”

“Bus’ll do.”

“We *agreed* you’d ask.”

“Emergency, this.”

“Dave’s got three vans! Not *our* problem!”

William looked baffled. “You’ve turned cruel.”

“No. I’ve just stopped being a doormat.”

Later, she rang her sister Margaret.

“Mags, would you let your husband lend your car without asking?”

“What? Em, what’s happened?”

After pouring it out, Margaret sighed. “I never liked him. You were scared of being alone. But you’ve a right to respect.”

Sarah rang again weeks later. “Need the car tomorrow.”

“No,” Emily said.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“But I’m *desperate*!”

“Call a cab.”

“Too pricey! We’re *friends*!”

“Friends don’t exploit friends.”

Sarah hung up. Emily sipped her tea—sad, but lighter. Sad for the lost friendship. Light because she’d finally said *no*.

—
**Lesson learned**: Respect isn’t given. It’s demanded. And sometimes, you have to choose yourself over those who’d treat you as an afterthought.