**Diary Entry:**
The snow in the town had nearly all melted, leaving a grimy slush of sand and ice on the pavements. But the cemetery still held onto its snow, though sagging from the winter rains. Ann wandered for what felt like ages between the gravestones, tracing frozen paths until she found her parents’ resting place. They lay side by side—her father had died in a car crash when she was in Year 10, and her mother joined him three years ago.
Ann had chosen a photo for the headstone where they looked the same age, just as she remembered them when her father was alive.
She had retired now, left her London flat to her son’s family, and come back to her hometown two days ago. She’d spent yesterday tidying the old house, and this morning, she went to the cemetery.
“Forgive me, Mum,” she whispered, brushing dirty snow from the stone. “I ran off to London—I had to. Thank you for understanding.”
After standing there a little longer, she turned to leave, retracing her footprints between the plots. She was nearly at the gates when she heard a voice behind her.
“Ann?”
She turned. A man in his late sixties stood there, face vaguely familiar.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
His smile cracked into recognition. “It’s me—Alex Gordon.”
She studied him. “I wouldn’t have known.”
“Not changed a bit, though,” he said, stepping closer. “Visiting your parents?”
“Yes. You?”
“Olive,” he said, gaze flickering away.
“Olive’s gone? When?” Ann felt no resentment, only a dull ache of pity.
“Six months ago. Cancer. Took her slowly. Now it’s just me.” His voice cracked—or maybe it was just the wind.
“Children?”
He shook his head. “What about you? Here with your husband?”
“Just me. Retired. Gave the London flat to my son.” She didn’t mention her husband.
At the gates, she hesitated. “I’ve kept you—you were going somewhere.”
“Just leaving Olive’s plot. I’ll visit Mum another day. Didn’t want to risk you vanishing again.” He smirked, but his eyes were tired.
A bus pulled away just as they reached the stop.
“I’ve got the car,” Alex offered, nodding toward the row of parked vehicles.
She didn’t much feel like chatting, but neither did she fancy waiting in the freezing cemetery air. The car was cold inside, the heater slow to warm. They passed the cemetery walls, an empty field waiting for new graves, then rows of terraced houses. Ann had never understood how people could live so close to the dead.
“All these years,” Alex said suddenly, “and I never understood why you left. When you vanished, I was lost. Why, Ann?”
She blinked. “Olive told you she was pregnant, didn’t she?”
His grip tightened on the wheel. “Found out later she couldn’t have kids. But by then… it was too late. Olive went mad when she heard you’d run off with her fiancé. Chased you to London for revenge. Why *did* you leave?”
Ann laughed softly. “Honestly? I’d have gone with anyone—as long as it got me out of here.”
Alex stared. The car swerved slightly on the slick road.
And so, without sparing him or herself, Ann told him everything.
—
**Earlier:**
They say some friendships are uneven—one always taking, the other giving. That was Ann and Olive.
When Ann started at the new school mid-term, Olive—the prettiest girl in class—took her under her wing. They walked the halls together, did homework side by side. Ann helped Olive cheat on tests.
Olive made Ann belong.
And then there was Alex—gawky, eager Alex, trailing after Olive like a lovesick puppy. She’d sneer, roll her eyes.
“Why do that? He’s decent. Give it a few years—he’ll be handsome,” Ann would say.
“When he is, maybe I’ll care,” Olive shot back.
They dreamed of the future.
“I won’t rot in this place. London’s where I’m headed. Come with me?” Olive pressed.
Ann shook her head. “I can’t leave Mum.”
“Suit yourself. But I’m marrying rich—a millionaire, at least.” Olive sighed dramatically.
Ann never doubted she would.
Olive *was* stunning—blonde, tan, sharp-featured. Men noticed. She flaunted it.
When Olive failed her A-levels, she went to beauty school. Her father’s rule: no London unless she studied.
“Ann, come visit. These girls here? Snakes. All of them,” Olive whined over the phone.
“You could always come home.”
“Never.”
Ann’s mother was strict—no makeup, no nonsense. “Men change. Education won’t. Be independent.”
Sensible. But at seventeen, sensible was boring. Ann envied Olive’s freedom.
Then, one day, she bumped into Alex—fresh from the Army, broad-shouldered now, though still a bit awkward. He walked her home. Asked her to the cinema.
Soon they were together. Alex drove for the mayor—nice car, sharp suits. A year in, he proposed. Ann made him wait till she finished university.
The mayor got him a flat. She stayed over often.
One evening, leaving the cinema, they ran into Olive—glossy, perfumed, dressed like a magazine cover.
“Annie!” She hugged Ann tight, then eyed Alex. “Well. *You’ve* improved.”
Ann saw the way Alex looked at her. Like she was sunlight.
Back at his flat, Olive admired everything. “A place of your own? And handsome? Why aren’t you two married yet?”
“Soon,” Ann said—but Alex looked away.
Two days later, after finishing an exam early, Ann went to surprise Alex. Bought wine, steak. Didn’t call.
At the door, she saw the shoes—strappy, expensive. Olive’s.
Laughter from the bedroom.
She pushed the door open.
Alex lay half-covered on the sofa, eyes closed in pleasure. Olive’s head rested on his chest, her fingers trailing his skin.
Ann fled.
Outside, she stumbled, nearly fell—until someone caught her.
“In a rush?” A man steadied her. Then, seeing her tears: “What’s wrong?”
She told him everything.
“Let me guess—Olive?”
Ann froze.
“Thought so,” he said. “She told me her mum was ill—vanished for days. Turns out she was here. With *your* fiancé.”
He took her to a café. Keith, his name was. Gave her brandy. Told her about his own failed marriage, how Olive had snared him next.
“Wedding’s off,” he said dryly.
He drove her home.
A week later, he turned up on her doorstep—roses in hand.
Her mother gaped. “Who’s this?”
Keith grinned. “Fancy a cuppa?”
He took her to London—the Royal Opera House. Brought her back the next day, just as promised.
Then he proposed.
She said yes.
They had a son. A good life. Keith doted on the boy. Ann never quite loved him, but she was safe. Content.
Now, in the cold car outside her house, Alex’s voice pulled her back.
“I drank for months after you left. Lost my job. Olive went to London—wanted revenge. Came back saying she was pregnant. What else could I do?”
Ann said nothing.
“Ann… we’re both alone now. Maybe—”
“Don’t.” She opened the door. “I had a good life. A son. Security. And you? Can’t even wait till Olive’s properly cold before sniffing round me. Pathetic.”
She slammed the door and walked away without looking back.
