**Diary Entry**
Second year at university, and I fell for a lovely blonde girl named Emily. She was in a parallel class—always with that soft blush on her cheeks and warm grey eyes that unsettled me. At a student party, we finally got to know each other properly. I asked her to dance.
“You’re brilliant at this,” I told her, and she laughed.
“Hardly difficult—just move quicker, that’s all!” she said, grinning as she swayed.
From that night on, we were inseparable. Our whirlwind romance ended in marriage. We lived in student halls, sharing one room, scraping by somehow. Then, before long, a cot appeared in the corner. Emily was expecting.
“Tom, how are we supposed to keep studying when the baby comes? One room… Maybe I should take a gap year. Shame, though—you’d finish before me.”
“Em, no point worrying now. We’ll figure it out when he’s here. We’re not the first students to raise a kid. Look at James from my class—he’s got twins and still manages!”
When the time came, Emily gave birth to a beautiful boy, Alfie. We couldn’t have been happier—this tiny new person in our lives. The first months were tough, but Alfie was strangely calm, letting us sleep through the night, as if he understood.
We took turns attending lectures, cramming for exams. Somehow, Emily avoided that gap year. When Alfie was ill, her mum would come from the nearby village to help—giving medicine, watching him.
“Em, maybe Alfie should stay with us in the village,” her mum suggested once.
“No, Mum. We’ll manage. We’ll call if we need you.”
We both graduated. You’d think the struggles would’ve strengthened our marriage, but no. Emily inherited a flat from her gran. We moved in, both working, Alfie in nursery.
Then something shifted. Emily grew cold. We stopped understanding each other. I wondered—had we ever truly loved one another, or was it just youthful infatuation? Were we staying together for Alfie’s sake? The only thing binding us now was love for our son and duty.
What Emily felt, I didn’t know. She’d fallen for someone else—Oliver. She wanted to leave me but couldn’t take Alfie far—this was her flat. Oliver had no place of his own. One evening, she said it plainly.
“Tom, we need to divorce. I love someone else. To me, you’re just Alfie’s father now. This isn’t fair to any of us.”
“I’m not ready for this,” I said, stunned. “What about Alfie? Have you even thought of him?”
“I think of him constantly. This is better for him.”
“Better? Letting another man raise my son instead of me? Are you serious?”
“He’s growing up. Soon he’ll notice we’re pretending. How long can we keep this up?”
“We’re a normal family. We both love him.”
“We love him. But we don’t love each other. That’s not normal, Tom.”
I knew she was right—logically. But my heart refused. She wanted Alfie after the divorce. The thought alone was unbearable. Yet I knew she was a good mother. I refused to agree.
“I won’t let Alfie call another man ‘Dad’.”
“Tom, no one’s replacing you. Divorce is between us, not you and Alfie. You don’t divorce your child.”
“Exactly. But I won’t read him bedtime stories, help with his homework, or build puzzles with him. What kind of father is that from a distance? If you want a new life, fine—but Alfie stays with me.”
I stormed out, wandering the streets, trying to think.
“What can I even do? Threaten her? Courts side with mothers, especially when they’ve got stable homes and jobs. Do I have the right to take a six-year-old from his mum?”
I walked for hours, no closer to an answer. My only option—refuse the divorce. Convince her to stay, even if it meant living separate lives under one roof. When Alfie was older, he’d understand.
I tried reasoning with her.
“Tom, how would that even work? Me living here, loving Oliver, pretending we’re happy? Be serious.”
“But you’re not taking Alfie. He needs me too.”
“Not living together doesn’t mean we love him any less,” she said firmly.
Emily had made up her mind. I dug in, refusing to sign anything. She grew impatient. Finally, I spoke to a solicitor friend.
“You can stall the divorce. But think—what kind of life is that? Alfie will see the tension, the bitterness. What example does that set? It’ll destroy him.”
He was right. But I wasn’t ready to relent.
One last talk with Emily.
“I’ll agree—if Alfie stays with me.”
She snapped. “So you’re manipulating me with our son? You don’t care about him—just ruining my life!”
We shouted until we were spent. After that, silence. We only spoke through Alfie.
“Ask Mum where my jumper is.”
“Tell Dad to pick me up after club. Mum’s working late.”
The tension thickened. Alfie, confused, grew quiet. Emily told him we’d had a row.
“How do you explain to a seven-year-old that we’ve fallen out of love but won’t separate because we both want him? But this can’t go on. We’re turning him anxious. It’s not living.”
I visited my mum, drained.
“Look at you,” she said. “You’re thinking of yourself, not Alfie. You’re torturing that boy.”
“But it’s Emily breaking us apart!”
“Tom, if you love him, let go. You can’t force her to love you again. She won’t lose Alfie—no court would allow it. Fighting only hurts him.”
“Shouldn’t I fight for my son?”
“Love him. That’s all.”
Something clicked. I rushed home.
“I’ll sign. But I see Alfie whenever I want. No arguments.”
“Fine by me,” Emily said.
We parted ways. I rented a flat, tried explaining to Alfie.
“Your mum and I won’t live together anymore. But I love you. We’ll still see each other—cinema, park, trips to Grandma’s.”
He nodded. “I get it, Dad. But I won’t leave Mum alone. I’ll still see you.”
“That’s my lad.”
Now, I live alone. Emily’s with Oliver and Alfie. And life moves on.
