**Diary Entry: The Letter Before the Arrival – And the Price of Peace**
Until I was thirty-five, I thought I was truly happy. My husband, Edward, our son, James, and our daughter, Emily—a modest but loving family. Everything changed when Edward lost his job at the factory. He couldn’t find work in Manchester, so he decided to go abroad for better wages.
“Laura, the lads say there’s good money over in Germany,” he said one evening.
“But what about us? You’ll be there, we’ll be here. That’s not how a family should be,” I protested.
“It won’t be forever. We’ll manage. Once we’re back on our feet, things will change.”
But they didn’t change the way I’d hoped. Edward came home less often, growing more distant, more withdrawn. Then, one day, as I was preparing for his return, I found a letter in the mailbox—from him.
I smiled, thinking it was full of love, of longing. It arrived on the day he was meant to come home. I tucked it into my bag and opened it inside—then my world crumbled.
*Laura, forgive me. I couldn’t say this to your face. I’ve fallen for someone else. Our marriage was a mistake. I want a divorce. I’ll support the children. Goodbye.*
I read it again and again, my vision blurring. Just then, James, only ten, walked in.
“Mum, the oven’s smoking. What’s wrong?”
I jumped up, turned it off, waved away the fumes. Forced a smile. But inside, my chest burned with grief.
A month later, we divorced. Edward left for good. He sent money but never stepped foot in our home again. Ten years passed before I learned he’d died in a crash. And I was left alone—two children, endless responsibility.
The years rolled on. I never remarried—couldn’t bear the thought of another man in the house. My life revolved around the kids. James grew up, married Charlotte. They moved into his old room, while Emily and I shared the other. Then came little George. But neither Charlotte nor Emily showed any sign of leaving. The house grew cramped, tense.
One day, Emily dropped the news.
“Mum, I’m pregnant. Dave and I will stay with you for a bit.”
“Where?” I gasped. “James and Charlotte are in one room, we’re in the other. Where will you fit?”
“We can use the sofa in the kitchen. You don’t mind, do you?”
So, I moved to the kitchen. That first night was unbearable. Then it got worse. The shouting, the rows—who ate the last of the bacon, who was too loud at night, who borrowed whose notebook. Everything sparked an argument.
Then I noticed Charlotte’s growing belly.
“You’re expecting?”
“Yeah. Another one on the way.”
“And where will they all go?”
“What, kicking us out now?” Charlotte snapped.
“No one’s kicking you out. But four of you in one room?”
“Well, tell *her* to move, she’s got a husband!” Charlotte shot back, glaring at Emily.
“So do you!” I fired back.
The next morning, James confronted me.
“Mum, you upset Charlotte. Are we not welcome?”
Emily chimed in on cue.
“And maybe *you* should tell your husband to find a place!”
“Do you know what?” I exploded. “Enough! All of you—out! James, Charlotte, the kids. You too, Emily, and Dave. I can’t take it anymore. You’ve turned my home into a battleground. No respect—not for me, not for each other. That’s it. Out!”
I said it strong, clear, no hesitation. Even surprised myself. But I didn’t regret it. Not for a second.
Three days later, they were gone. So many threats—”You’ll never see your grandkids,” “We’re done with you.” I stayed silent.
That evening, I sat in the kitchen. Alone. No shouting. No arguing. Just quiet.
I looked around and, for the first time in years, felt like this house was mine again. I redecorated. Bought new furniture. The next year, I went abroad—first holiday in my life.
And if anyone says I’m selfish—no. I gave everything to my children. Now, at last, I live for myself. And that’s exactly as it should be.
