**Diary Entry**
I know I was a terrible mother. I went to see my son—”I don’t have a mother,” he replied and walked away.
When Daniel turned three, our family fell apart—my husband packed his things and left. No explanations, no regrets. I was left alone with a child, no support, an empty purse, and a bitter heart. Months later, I took a job abroad, hoping to get back on my feet and give my son a proper future.
I left Danny in my mother’s care. She was the one who took him to nursery, taught him nursery rhymes, ironed his school uniform when he started Year One. She comforted him at night when he cried from loneliness. And me? I sent parcels, money, letters. But I rarely visited. Work, life, new relationships—something always got in the way.
Yes, I fell in love. In another city, another country, with another man. At some point, I realised my son didn’t fit into that new life. I tried to ignore it, but it was true. He became something distant, burdensome—a heavy reminder of what I’d run from.
When Daniel finished school, he went to university. Graduated with honours. Landed a job at an international firm and moved to Germany. Travelled the world, climbed the ladder. I was proud, though only from afar.
Once, in France, he met a girl named Eleanor. Turned out she was also British. They fell hard, moved in together. When Eleanor got pregnant, they decided to return to London, married, and bought a flat. Their son, Oliver, was born. Daniel dreamed of a big family, but Eleanor wanted more time for herself.
He travelled more for work, trying to make up for it with money, gifts, holidays. Burned himself out but thought he was doing right.
Once, he came home early—his trip had been extended by two months. Eleanor wasn’t there. Oliver was playing with the nanny, who—flustered—said the mistress had gone to the gym. Something in her voice gave it away. As Daniel unpacked presents, Oliver grabbed a toy and exclaimed,
“I already have this! Uncle James gave me one just like it!”
Everything clicked. Eleanor confessed: she’d been seeing James for over a year and wasn’t sorry. “You’re always flying somewhere. I got tired of being alone,” she said.
The next day, Daniel filed for divorce. “I won’t stop you seeing Oliver. But the flat’s mine. Find somewhere else to live with your lover,” he said calmly. She begged to stay—where would the child sleep? But he stood firm.
Two weeks later, she stood at his door with Oliver.
“James and I are leaving. Let Oliver stay with you. I’ll take him once we’re settled.”
“Your boyfriend doesn’t want him around, does he?”
She stayed silent.
Their new life together began. Daniel quit his job, started his own business to be there for his son. At first, Oliver asked about his mum, but eventually, he stopped. Eleanor never called, never visited. Daniel swore off marriage—betrayal had burned him for good.
Years passed. Oliver grew up. One grey evening, a woman stood at their door. Older, guilt in her eyes.
“I barely tracked you down. I want to see my son. I know I did everything wrong…”
Oliver glanced at his father. Daniel nodded.
“Yes. That’s your mother.”
The boy looked up.
“I don’t have a mother.”
He turned and walked inside. I stood frozen, staring into her hollow eyes. No words were left.
“You heard him. Don’t come back.”
I shut the door and went to my son. Behind that door was my real family. **Lesson learnt—love isn’t just given. It’s earned, day by day.**
