**Diary Entry 12th June**
The morning found us on a dusty lane leading away from the village. In one hand, I held little Sophies small fingers, and in the other, a light suitcase packed not so much with belongings as with betrayed hopes. The bus wheezed and groaned as it pulled away from the stop, carrying us far from the place where, just hours before, I had believed in somethinganything. I left without so much as a goodbye to Mark. Hed gone fishing at dawn, just as hed excitedly told me he would the night before. Through the grimy window, I watched the fields blur past and faced a bitter truth: I had never met a man worth fighting for.
Yet it had all begun so beautifully, so blindingly romantic it stole my breath.
Mark had burst into my life during his final year at university. He wouldnt leave me alone, showering me with compliments, gazing with lovestruck eyes that melted my doubts. He swore he loved me, couldnt imagine life without me or my four-year-old Sophie. His persistence, his boyish sincerity, thawed the ice around my heartstill fragile after losing my first husband. Within three months, we were living together in my flat, full of his grand plans and promises.
“Alice, my love,” hed say, eyes shining like deep lakes, “once I graduate, well go to my village. Ill introduce you to my parents, my whole family! Ill tell them youre my future wife! Youll come, wont you?” Hed pull me close, and the world seemed so simple.
“Of course,” Id reply, a timid hope warming me inside. He spoke so often of his motherkind, welcoming, a woman who adored guests and knew how to make a home cosy. I believed him. I *wanted* to believe.
The village where Mark grew up met us under a quiet evening sun. His entire family lived practically shoulder to shoulder. I didnt know then about Emily, the local beauty whod loved Mark since childhoodeveryones pride and joy, the perfect future bride in their eyes. Nor did I know of Grandad George, Marks paternal grandfather, living in a weathered cottage nearby, often visiting his sons house because his own bathhouse had long since sagged into disrepair. George spent his days in quiet reflection, gazing at the hill beyond the village where his wife lay buried. He knew guests were cominghis grandson bringing his intended.
The night before, George had stopped by and found his daughter-in-law, Helen, in a sour mood.
“Another row with Steven?” hed asked, ready to lecture his son.
But Helen, seeing him, spat out her bitterness first: “Youve heard, then? Our Marks getting married. Bringing his city girl tomorrow.”
“I know. Steven told me. Well, goodthe lads finished uni, got a job. Time to settle before life passes him by,” George mused.
“Easy for you to say,” Helen scoffed, her face twisting. “This girlthree years older than him! And a child in tow! Whats wrong with our village girls? Emilys a nurse, hardworking, beautiful and this one? Who knows where her child came from, who her people are. Why saddle himself with another mans burden? Hell have his own children soon enough. Oh, shes struck gold, hasnt she? A graduate like him.”
“Helen, meddling never did any good,” George tried, but she wasnt listening.
Shed been simmering for days, nursing resentment toward her son and this stranger whod stolen him from Emily. Quietly, shed made her plan: no effort, no feast, no smiles. Let this city girl know she wasnt wanted.
We arrived tired but hopeful. Mark glowed with happiness. He hadnt been home in a year. His mother opened the door. He rushed in first, dropping his bag, while Sophie and I lingered on the doorstep, waiting for an invitation.
“Mark, my boy!” Helen hugged him fiercely, her gaze skimming over me and Sophiecold, assessing. “Our graduates home at last!” The emphasis on *our* wasnt lost on me.
Then, sweetly sharp: “So this is Alice? With a child?” Her eyes raked me up and down.
“Come in, then. Wash up. Mark, show them around.”
I understood immediately. Mark, oblivious, beamed and led me inside. Soon, his father and grandfather returned from the bathhouse. Steven was gruff but kind; Grandad George had gentle, warm eyes. Both hugged us with genuine warmth.
“Right, then! Lets eat!” Steven boomed. “Helen, stop dawdlingour guests are starving!”
The table was meagre. Mark frownedhe knew his mother could do better. I barely ate, bitterness clotting my throat. Resentment grew: why hadnt he introduced me as his fiancée? Why let them slight us?
Steven poured homemade wine, but Helen cut in: “A toast to our Mark! His degree, his new job!”
Toast after toastonly for Mark. As if Sophie and I didnt exist. And he he laughed, chatted, said nothing. I barely recognised him.
Only Grandad George glanced at us with quiet sympathy.
Sophie, exhausted, swayed on her feet.
“May I put her to bed?” I asked.
Helen led us to a narrow cot in a tiny room. “Sleep here.” The door slammed.
I lay beside Sophie, tears hot on my cheeks. *Why am I here? Wheres the kind woman he promised?*
Mark woke me later.
“Alice, come to my room. Why sleep here?” He whispered promiseswedding plans, talks tomorrow. But no understanding.
I didnt sleep. Memories flashed: my first husbands mother, whod embraced me like a daughter. My Davidstrong, protective. Hed never let anyone slight me.
*They see me as a mistake. Because of Sophie. But theyre wrong.*
At breakfast, Helen sighed theatrically. “Oh, Mark, no more carefree days. Now youll work yourself to the bonefeeding *her* child.”
Steven growled, “Helen!”
But Mark just grinned. “Lets show Alice the village!”
Outside, I poured out my hurt. He dismissed it*just Mum being Mum.* He didnt understand: I didnt need him to fight. Just *one word* in our defence.
“Youre overreacting,” he said. “Well leave soon. Im fishing at dawnbrilliant time for it!”
By morning, he was gone.
Helen cornered me. “Mark says youre leaving. Because of *you*. When will I see my son again? Youll chain him to your skirtsfeeding you and your brat”
I listened, calm settling over me. Then I smiled.
“You know, my first husband was an officer. Honest, brave. He loved me more than life. Unlike your son, he proved itnot with words, but actions. Hed never let even his mother belittle me or our child. His mother still adores Sophie. She bought my flatthe one your son lived inand another, in the city. I have two degrees, speak three languages. After David died, she lived for us. She says I need a *man*, and Sophie, a *father*. And money? Your son couldnt dream of my income. I own two shops. So your fearsthat Mark must feed another mans childare baseless.”
Helen paled.
“I should thank you,” I said softly. “You showed me the truth. God doesnt make mistakes. I dont need a mother-in-law who sees me as an enemy. Or a man who wont defend his family.”
I packed in silence, my hands steady.
The bus rolled away. No regretjust sorrow for believing pretty lies. Id always doubted Marks love. I liked his devotion, his persistence. But it wasnt *love*. Not the right choice. Not the right life.
I closed my eyes. Ahead lay the road hometo real life, real love. Because Id learned to value myself. And Sophie. Thats what matters.
