**Diary Entry – A Mother’s Heart**
Margaret paced back and forth in her flat, restless. For days now, James had been coming home late. Last night, it was nearly dawn. She’d scolded him—couldn’t he at least call so she wouldn’t worry? They’d quarrelled. Now here she was again, watching the clock, wearing a path in the carpet.
*He loves me, but a phone call wouldn’t hurt. Sooner or later, he’ll marry. I should get used to it. And who knows what sort of wife he’ll end up with? More worries. Best not to dwell. He’s grown, but a mother’s heart still aches.* She couldn’t stop herself from spiralling.
She used to laugh at mothers who smothered their grown sons. Now she was no better. Every girl he’d brought home? Unworthy. Like all mothers, she believed he should consult her on something as important as marriage. *She* knew best. The thoughts swirled endlessly. If only he’d come home already.
The door clicked. Margaret startled, though she’d been listening for it. *Finally!* She rushed to the hall but stopped halfway, retreating to the kitchen instead. She sat at the table, hands folded.
“Mum, why aren’t you asleep?” James stood in the doorway.
“You know I worry. You could’ve called,” she said reproachfully.
“I’m an adult. I don’t need to account for every move.”
“Where were you?” Her tone was sharp.
“With Emily.” His voice softened.
“Another girl—and likely not the last. You’ve only one mother.” Jealousy seeped through.
“Not ‘another.’ She’s the one. Like you, Mum.” He kissed her cheek. “Don’t speak badly of her. You’ll regret it later. How else would I choose a wife if I didn’t date? You always said not to marry the first girl I met. Right?”
“I did,” Margaret conceded. “So, you’ve chosen?”
James crouched beside her, searching her face. Her heart swelled. He looked so like his father—the same eyes, the same smile.
“I have, Mum.” He buried his head in her lap.
“Then introduce us,” she said, softening.
“I will, but…” He looked up.
“What? Is something wrong with her?” She braced herself. Was he bringing home some stray, like the puppies he’d dragged in as a boy?
Compassion was good, but you couldn’t save them all. Back then, she’d pretended allergies, sneezing until he rehomed them. That wouldn’t work now. The words burned her tongue, but his warning glance silenced her.
“Nothing’s wrong. She’s lovely, a great cook—I adore her. But she’s not alone.”
“A married woman?” Fear flashed across her face.
“No. She has a son. He’s five.”
“Five?” Margaret gasped. “How old *is* she?”
“Mum, don’t shout. Yes, she’s older.”
“I see.” Anger choked her. Her boy—her sunshine, the one she’d move mountains for—in love with an older woman *and* a child?
“What do you ‘see’? I love her. People make mistakes. You’ve said so yourself.”
“Yes. Some mistakes last a lifetime. And young, free girls don’t appeal anymore?” she snapped.
“This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t understand. Remember that colleague of yours—the one left heartbroken with a daughter? You said she’d find someone good to be a father. Why can’t that someone be *me*?”
“Love fades, son. I loved your father madly, and he left us.”
“Exactly. No guarantee a young girl would last either. I love Emily—and her boy. He’s wonderful. Even if you oppose it, I won’t leave her. Understood? Let’s drop it.”
“James, I raised you to be happy—”
“Enough. It’s *my* life. Interfere, and I’ll go.” He turned and left.
“Son…”
Morning came. He left for work without breakfast. Days passed in silence. He returned late, shut in his room. Margaret ached, lost on how to mend things.
It felt like yesterday she’d rocked him to sleep, bandaged his knees. Now? A grown man. Hard to accept.
“James, let’s talk,” she tried once.
“When you’re ready to hear me.”
*He loves her. Push him away, and you’ll lose him*, warned Ethel, the eldest at work. Margaret had confided her pain over lunch, craving solace.
“I know I’m wrong, but I couldn’t stop myself,” she near-sobbed.
“Did you expect him to stay tied to you forever? He needs your support, not resistance. Did *your* mother-in-law welcome you straight off?”
“Not at first. But I was younger, no child in tow.”
“And she still found faults. Mothers fret over sons; they *always* disapprove. Some make peace. Others wage war. Nothing good comes of it. You were childless when you married, yet raised yours alone.”
“James said the same.”
“Then accept it. He’s not married yet. Still comes home. He’s waiting for your wisdom—your love. Meet Emily. See what’s so special. Dry your eyes. He’s not off to war—just in love.”
Margaret steadied. Three weeks of silence. It couldn’t go on. She’d visit Emily, *reason* with her—ask her to let James go. Resolute, she got the address from his mate.
James hit the gym Tuesdays and Fridays. She had an hour. Empty-handed? Too aggressive. A cake? That’s for peace-making. A toy? For the boy, not his mother. The child wasn’t to blame.
At the shop, she lost herself picking cars—*this one today, that one next time*. Though, would there *be* a next time?
She rang the bell. A pretty woman answered. A grinning boy darted out, faltering at the stranger.
“Hello. I’m James’s mum,” Margaret said.
“I guessed. Come in. Oliver, to your room,” Emily nudged him away.
Margaret swapped shoes for oversized slippers (James’, surely). The flat was cosy, tidy.
“I’m Oliver! Look at my plane—it *roars*!” He demonstrated.
“Brilliant! I brought you something.” She produced a box.
Oliver’s eyes lit up. For fifteen minutes, they tested the car’s doors, its speedy wheels.
“Like it?”
“*Yes*! How’d you know I wanted this?”
“A guess. I’ve a son too—grown now.”
She’d forgotten her mission. Emily drifted in and out, likely cooking. It hit her—James would be here soon. Where else had he been spending nights?
“I should go.”
“Wait for James?” Emily leaned in the doorway.
“Will you come back?” Oliver asked.
“Yes.” She meant it.
All the way home, she recalled Oliver’s joy. How he’d called her “you,” as if she’d always been there. Warmth bloomed in her chest. Emily hadn’t interfered—wise.
Back home, the flat felt hollow. If James left for good, she’d be alone. The thought crushed her. She wept.
Next morning, she told Ethel about her “confrontation”—how she’d longed to hug Oliver, breathe in his sweet, childlike scent.
Then James called, casual as ever. “Emily’s baked a pie. Come over. I’ll be there.” *He knew I’d visited.*
She stopped at the shops after work. A pie wasn’t enough. She bought Oliver’s next car and four stained-glass cups.
“Thanks, Mum.” James kissed her. “Four cups?”
“Three for you. One for me—when I visit.”
Emily smiled.
“We’ll need a fifth soon, Mum. I’ve been waiting to propose.” He pulled out a velvet box. “Emily, marry me?”
“*What?*” Margaret gasped. “You—? You’re expecting?”
“Not yet. But we will. A girl.” He smirked, hugging her. “You *do* want grandkids.”
“You’re my grandma?” Oliver’s face was pure wonder.
**Lesson Learned:** Love doesn’t divide—it multiplies. A mother’s fear can blind her, but sometimes, the very thing she resents becomes her greatest joy. Letting go isn’t losing. It’s making room for more.
