**Diary Entry – June 10th**
The door creaked open as Vicky called out, “Come in quick! My sister’s here!”
“Emma? No way!” gasped Beatrice, stepping into their cosy kitchen in Manchester. There, sitting at the table, was a striking woman with tired but kind eyes. The moment she saw Beatrice, Emma leaped up and pulled her into a hug. They’d been friends since childhood, sharing laughter and tears, and now, years later, it felt like stepping back into simpler times.
“Let’s celebrate! Two years is too long,” Beatrice insisted, and soon the three women were deep in conversation, each carrying stories woven with joy and heartache.
Emma had been widowed six years ago. Her husband, James, died in a car crash—with his mistress. For a year, he’d led a double life, and Emma had no idea. She’d sensed something was off but fought to save their marriage for the sake of their kids, Oliver and Sophie. They adored their father, and she couldn’t bear to shatter their world.
Then the accident changed everything. The children, shattered by grief, took years to recover. Emma, crushed herself, tried to be their rock, but sorrow gnawed at their family from within.
“My Andrew’s a proper tyrant,” sighed Beatrice, sipping her tea. “Read about toxic relationships online—that’s him. Glad I kicked him out before he got worse.”
“Husbands are one thing,” Emma said bitterly. “You can divorce them. But kids? You’re stuck with them. After James died, mine went off the rails. We all grieved, but Oliver… he blamed me. Said our arguments drove his dad to cheat, that the stress caused the crash. Now he hates me. Told me I should’ve died instead. Can you imagine, Bea? That I should’ve—”
Her voice broke. Beatrice and Vicky sat frozen, lost for words. Emma steadied herself. “He’s a bully. Only 19, and I’m scared of him. He doesn’t just insult me—he gets violent. I endure it because… what else can I do? Report my own son? He even harasses Vicky when she defends me. Last week, he slammed her head into the table corner just for walking with me. Apologised after, but it’s a cycle. I pray the army sorts him out. Sophie and I fled here just to breathe.”
Beatrice’s chest ached. She knew Emma’s pain but had no comfort to offer. Vicky twisted a napkin, eyes glistening.
“I keep wondering,” Emma murmured, “where I went wrong. I tried to be a good mum, but he sees me as the enemy. Blames me for everything. And I… I don’t know how to go on.”
“It’s unbearable,” Beatrice whispered. “How can he treat you like this? He should know it’s not your fault!”
“He doesn’t want to,” Emma said. “Hating me’s easier. And I fear he’ll ruin not just my life, but Vicky’s too. She puts up with it for me.”
Vicky finally looked up. “Em, I don’t regret standing by you. He’s your son, but this can’t go on. We must do something. Talk to him? Or a therapist?”
“Therapist?” Emma scoffed. “He won’t listen. Says I’m to blame, full stop.”
The kitchen fell thick with silence, heavy as a storm. Each woman felt the other’s pain but had no cure. Beatrice lifted her mug, forcing lightness. “Girls, let’s drink… to us. To finding strength, no matter the men or children who break our hearts.”
They clinked glasses, but there was no joy in it. Emma stared out at the darkening sky, thinking of Oliver. She still loved him, despite the pain. Yet deep down, she feared that love might destroy her.
**Lesson today? A husband can be cut loose, but a child’s grip never fades—even when it scars you.**
