**Diary Entry**
My name is Eleanor, and I’m 44 years old. Until recently, I never imagined I’d find myself trapped in such an emotional whirlwind. I spent my whole life with one man—my husband, the father of my children, my partner, my rock. We were together for over twenty years. Then, a year ago, he passed away suddenly. A heart attack. He left without a goodbye, leaving an emptiness in our home and a cold, gaping hole in my heart.
We have two children. Our son, Thomas, is in his third year at university—bright, sensible, already a man. Our daughter, Charlotte, just finished school and started university herself, still so young and fragile. They are my pride, my whole world. But to them, I’m only a mother. Only a widow.
Two months ago, William came into my life. We met by chance at an art exhibition—I’d gone just to keep from drowning in loneliness. He was kind, thoughtful, a true gentleman. He didn’t push or demand; he was simply there. We started seeing each other, first just walks, then dinners, talking late into the night. In his eyes, I felt like a woman again. Alive. Wanted. Loved.
And then, not long ago, he asked me to marry him. Plainly, sincerely: *”Eleanor, be my wife. Let’s start fresh. Together.”* I cried—not from sadness, but fear. Because I knew my children wouldn’t accept it.
I gathered my courage and sat them down at the kitchen table, like I had when I told them I was expecting them, when I taught them to tie their shoes, when I sent them off to their first day of school. But this time was different.
*”There’s someone in my life,”* I said quietly. *”His name is William. We’ve been seeing each other. And he’s asked me to marry him.”*
What followed wasn’t shouting—it was a storm. Anger, hurt, disbelief.
*”So you’ve already forgotten Dad?!”* Charlotte nearly screamed, tears in her eyes.
*”You want to bring some random bloke into our home?”* Thomas snapped. *”You’re betraying him!”*
They looked at me like I was a stranger. I tried to explain—I haven’t forgotten. I remember every wrinkle on his face, his voice, his laugh, the scent of his aftershave. But he’s gone, my darlings. I can’t bring him back, no matter how much I wish I could. I’m alive. And I want to be with someone who makes my heart beat again.
They didn’t listen.
Now I’m stuck in limbo. If I marry William, I’ll lose them. They’ll cut me off, walk away. If I turn him down, I’ll be alone. Because children don’t stay forever. They have their own lives—families, homes, worries. And what about me? Just *”Mum, sitting alone in the house.”*
I told William, *”Give me time. Maybe they’ll understand. Eventually.”* He nodded. Held me. Said he’d wait. But I’m not sure how long his patience will last. And he has every right to move on. He doesn’t carry my memories, my grief, my children. He just wants to love me. That’s no crime.
It hurts that my children don’t see me as a person anymore. I’ve lived honestly. I was a loyal wife, a devoted mother. I never abandoned or betrayed them. So why must I apologise for wanting happiness now?
I don’t blame them. I understand—they’re scared. Afraid William will erase their father’s memory. But that won’t happen. He’ll always be part of us. In photos, stories, the ways we remember him. But *I’m* still here. And I’m alive.
Some evenings, I sit by the window and watch the city, each lit pane hiding its own story. Somewhere, someone’s falling in love. Marrying. Raising children. Others just… living. And I realise—I want to live too. Not just survive. Not just exist.
I don’t know yet what I’ll choose. But I know this—I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a woman. And I deserve to be happy.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldn’t come with guilt, and grief doesn’t mean life must stop. Sometimes, choosing yourself is the hardest—and bravest—choice of all.
