**Diary Entry**
Just what I needed…
Margaret lived alone. Children had never happened for her and her husband. At first, they hoped, they tried—then they considered adoption. She was the one who wanted it; he seemed indifferent, content with how things were. Perhaps she took too long preparing for such a serious step, agonising over it while time slipped away. After forty, she quietly abandoned the idea. Truthfully, she was afraid.
Her husband adored hiking—backpacks, tents, campfire songs. He played the guitar well, a social man who thrived in crowds. In their younger years, Margaret had enjoyed it too. But as she aged, she grew weary. Weekends spent trudging with a heavy pack, returning Sunday evening only to rinse off river water and rush to work on Monday—mosquito bites, wind-chapped skin, ragged nails. She craved lazy lie-ins, hot showers, proper toilets—not baring her backside to biting insects in the woods.
Too many adventures became exhausting. Her back ached; her joints protested. So she stopped joining him.
He skipped a few trips out of solidarity. But she saw his restlessness, his quiet gloom, and urged him to go without her. He brightened instantly.
*”Why let him wander off alone? Mark my words, some woman will snap him up. He’d have settled down eventually,”* her friend scolded.
*”If no one ‘snapped him up’ in his youth, why now?”*
*”You’re naïve. A man’s always in demand, at any age.”*
*”So what? Should I trail after him, just to stop him straying? Through the pain? No. If he wants to cheat, he’ll do it at home. Hiking’s not a prerequisite. Besides, our group’s tight-knit.”*
*”Sure, sure,”* her friend muttered.
After that, he stopped inviting her. They drifted. Fewer shared stories, fewer laughs. But she noticed nothing unusual—until the day he returned distracted, distant.
*”Where’d you go this time?”* she asked, reheating soup.
*”The usual route. You’ve been. Some newcomers joined.”*
*”Photos? Show me?”* She prodded, trying to spark conversation.
*”I told you, same old trail.”* He stared at his plate.
She pretended to believe him. But she knew—her friend’s warning had come true.
Three days of silence passed before he spoke.
*”I’m sorry. I’ve fallen in love. Hard. Never thought it’d happen.”* He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
*”Just like that?”*
*”She joined instead of you. Been on a few trips. I can’t imagine life without her.”*
*”Is she young?”*
He said nothing.
*”Right. What now? Moving in with her?”* Margaret fought to keep calm, to not scream or accuse.
*”She’s divorcing too. Has a son. Nowhere to live—I can’t bring her here. Let’s sell the flat. Split it.”* Finally, he looked up.
*”Why doesn’t she sell hers?”*
*”It’s her husband’s. If you refuse, I’ll… I don’t know…”* He paced, agitated.
The flat was marital property. Every fibre of her rebelled—but after days of deliberation, she agreed, insisting on choosing her own new place. It stung, watching his relief.
*”I knew you were daft, but not this daft,”* her friend groaned, twirling a finger at her temple.
*”You’re right. But there’s a child involved. Not his fault. I’m not heartless. Why keep a big flat alone?”*
Luck favoured her: a bright one-bedroom in the same area, freshly refurbished, close to work. She never asked about his new place. Why bother?
Alone now, in a small flat, no husband, no children. She’d adjust.
Then, late one evening, the phone rang. Her brother. He only called for disasters—the last time, when their father died.
Margaret had left their tiny village for the city, studied, married. To her family, she was *rich*—a city job, her own flat. They expected lavish gifts. At first, she visited often, but their envy, even her mother’s, wore her down. How to explain that a flat wasn’t wealth, but necessity? That city life was expensive?
Her younger brother was their parents’ golden child. *He*’d stay, care for them. All hopes rested on him. Margaret felt like an outsider. So she stopped visiting. Then her husband’s hiking obsession left no time.
Father had died a decade ago. Her last trip home.
This call boded no good.
*”Nick? What’s wrong?”* she braced. *”Mum?”*
*”No, she’s alive. But poorly. Barely leaves the house. Can’t manage alone. You should come.”*
*”I can’t now. Maybe in a month.”* Relief—Mum was okay.
*”Look…”* He hesitated. *”Nadine left me. Said she’s done nursing Mum, splitting between two homes. Took the boys. I’m a bloke—can’t run a household. I work. Mum’s no help, needs care herself.”*
*”So?”*
*”I’m not alone now. Got a girlfriend. She’s expecting. Can’t dump Mum on her. You take her.”*
*”Who?”* Was he asking her to house Mum or the pregnant girlfriend?
*”Mum, not Maggie.”*
*”Maggie—”*
*”My missus. Not official, though…”*
She heard his grin.
*”Where would I put her? I’m divorced. One-bed flat.”*
*”Perfect. Company for you. Pension helps. Mum hates Maggie. Fetch her. She’ll rot here alone.”*
Despite arguing, she caved. Took unpaid leave, returned to the village. Mum had doted on Nick—now he palmed her off. No choice. A mother’s a mother.
Mum recognised her, though without joy. Shrivelled with age, she agreed to leave. Nick, Margaret realised, had taken to drink. No wonder his wife fled.
They brought nothing. All Mum’s things were rags. Nick bought clothes occasionally, handed down his castoffs. He waved them off at the train station. Never called again.
Once home, Margaret regretted not buying a spare bed first. Her sofa—chosen for her bad back—was her only comfort. That night, Mum slept there. Next day, Margaret overpaid for speedy delivery of a second-hand sofa. Mum liked watching the street.
Mum hobbled about, but barely. As Nick warned, she spilled soup, left taps running, nearly blew up the kitchen. Margaret cleaned nightly—scrubbing the loo, scraping dried food off carpets. She switched to remote work to watch her. Within months, Mum was bedridden.
Nick didn’t come to the funeral. *Too busy.*
Back at the office, Margaret kept Mum’s urine-stained sofa. Couldn’t bear to toss it.
Just as life steadied, Nick called again. Saturday dawn, an unknown number. She braced for disaster.
*”Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?”* he scoffed at her caution.
*”You? Never. What d’you want?”*
He laughed. *”How’re you holding up?”*
*”Why?”*
*”Back still bad? Joints?”*
*”Yes. Why’s that good?”*
*”Means you’ll need help. My eldest—remember Tony? Graduated top of his class. Teachers say he’s gifted. Needs uni. No colleges here. So he’s moving in with you. Just a year—’til he gets a dorm.”*
She gaped. Again, no one asked.
*”One-bed flat. How’s that work?”*
*”We lived four to a room growing up. Worried about your ‘reputation’? He’s quiet.”* He chuckled. *”Feed him sometimes. That’s it. Good to have someone around.”*
*”Around for what?”*
*”Errands. Calling an ambulance if you croak.”*
No arguing swayed him. She eyed Mum’s sofa. Glad she’d kept it.
Tony arrived sullen, silent, glued to his laptop. *At least he won’t break dishes*, she thought. But his presence unnerved her. Once, she came home early, blood pressure spiking—to find him naked with a girl on her good sofa.
The girl dressed, left. Tony shrugged. *”It’s Jeanne.”*
*”Not Sarah, not Lucy—Jeanne. Unacceptable. I’ll march to your uni tomorrow—”*
*”Don’t. I’ll go.”*
Two days later, he left for a dorm. No relief—just guilt. Why did Nick burden her without remorseAnd then, as she stared at the phone in her hand, listening to the voice she once loved, she whispered, “Just what I needed.”
