**Diary Entry**
I never wanted to help my daughter, not after what she did—leaving me without a home. The whole village judged me, of course. They saw me living in a fine house while my daughter, Julia, and her children squeezed into a tiny cottage. And Julia only made it worse, spreading her grievances. “I haul water from the well while she has plumbing. I buy firewood with my last pennies, and she has gas,” she’d complain to anyone who’d listen. I held my head high and ignored the gossip. Why should I explain myself? They wouldn’t understand.
Years ago, I had a perfect life—me, my husband, and darling Julia. A three-bedroom house, comfort, stability. I stayed home, raising our girl, ensuring she had the best schools and hobbies. Everything was smooth. But when Julia turned fifteen, my husband fell ill. As a devoted wife, I fought for his recovery, selling everything but the house. Still, after three years, we lost him.
Julia and I struggled. There was nothing left. She, accustomed to luxury, rebelled. I took a job at a shop, working the till and filling in as a cleaner. The pay was pitiful. Julia finished school but refused further education. “No money for university, and I won’t settle for trade school,” she’d snap. Yet she always had funds for nights out—so cunning. When she needed money, I was “Mum, dearest.” Otherwise, “Why did you even have me if you can’t help?”
Then came Ian. At first, I was relieved—finally, Julia was settling down. He seemed respectable, well-dressed, stern enough to keep her in line. Generous, too. Bought expensive groceries, called me “Mum” from day one. Sweet as sugar.
For a while, we lived contentedly. I’d return from work to a clean house and dinner waiting, though the youngsters were often out till dawn. I didn’t pry—let them live. But after six months, tensions rose. Julia cried often, Ian grew short-tempered. I didn’t interfere. My mistake.
One evening, they summoned me. “Mum, we want our own place,” Julia began. “We need to sell the house and split the money fairly.” I hesitated, but she pressed—pleading, then threatening to sell her share. I relented. They handled the sale themselves… and vanished with the money.
I was left homeless, middle-aged, and penniless. Renting was impossible on my wages, so I sought live-in work. Anything. I found it as a carer for an elderly woman, Irene Simmons. Her son, well-off, had offered her a home with him, but she refused to leave her house. So, he hired me.
Irene was exacting. Barely mobile yet demanding her home run precisely as she liked. I learned—baking bread in the old hearth, starching linens. Hard, but not impossible. We coexisted for two years, never close, never enemies. Then, one morning, she smiled—by noon, she was gone. Her son arranged everything. Later, he made me an offer: “I know your story. Let’s not pretend I didn’t check. I’ll sell you this house—a token sum, payable over time.” And just like that, I had a home again.
I’d barely settled when Julia reappeared—two toddlers in tow. “Nice place,” she said, as if entitled. “Where’s my room?”
Coldly, I replied, “Your room was in the house you sold with Ian. Where’s *my* share? And why seek me now? Let me guess—Ian left you too?”
She huffed. “Don’t be cruel. He was a gambler, swindled us both. I married twice after, but… well. When the last one threw me out, I thought, *Mum won’t abandon me*.”
“You thought wrong,” I said. “You’re a grown woman—a mother. Why should I help? You took all I had. Sleep here tonight, but leave tomorrow.”
She stayed two weeks, then used a housing voucher to buy a ramshackle cottage. After that, she barred me from seeing the children. So we lived—close, yet worlds apart.
We only reconciled when disaster struck. Julia’s latest man burned the cottage down. Luckily, she and the children were away. When they turned up at my door, I let them in. Like it or not, they’re all I have left. Time to forgive. The rest? God knows.
