**Diary Entry**
I live in a lovely cottage tucked away in the Cotswolds. Just outside, hydrangeas and petunias bloom in wild bursts of violet, so dazzling it feels almost surreal.
This afternoon, I curled up in the garden swing with a book while a spiced apple pie baked in the Aga. The scent of cinnamon mingled with mint from the hedgerows, as if heaven itself smelled this way.
I always knew—*exactly*—when he’d arrive. On those mornings, I’d knead the dough, dreaming up new fillings. None of those heavy roasts or Sunday gravies for me. The magic was in the pastry, yielding perfectly under my hands.
Funny, isn’t it? Once, it was my grandmother who baked. Now it’s me. And I’m decidedly *not* a grandmother.
He never planned his visits. Time would pass, then suddenly—he’d need me. Always called from the road.
He had nothing and no one. Just a past—two failed marriages, a son he seldom saw, a move to Manchester, a car boot stuffed with his life, and the slow clawing back from anger’s abyss.
We met predictably: a beach party in Brighton. His mate dragged him; my sister dragged me. Neither of us wanted to go, so we lingered on the edges, strangers to the laughter. Then he asked me to dance. Bought me a single red rose from a girl hawking them—so cliché—and drove me home across half the county.
Everything tangled after that. And he panicked. Why risk his heart again?
But when the loneliness grew unbearable, he’d get in that car and come. Bury his face in my hair and murmur, *”Well, hello…”*
Once, he even mused about staying. *”I could live here,”* he said. My eyes flickered—bright, then gone. *”Your choice.”*
Leaving was agony. He’d step past the gate, pause, turn back to kiss me. Again and again.
He wished we’d met sooner. Was just glad we met at all.
I’d pour tea, slice the pie, sit across from him. Simple. He’d known wild passions, feverish nights—yet here he was, soothed by quiet love. The kind that smells of mint and strawberry jam. Or raspberry. Or blackberry. The kind with whispered conversations till dawn, the curve of my hip against his, my sleepy smile, my voice crackling over the phone across miles and satellites.
He didn’t wait for the weekend. Rang from the road, as usual. Switched off his mobile, turned up the radio, never heard the crash.
She’ll never know he was coming to stay.
He’ll never know his daughter has his piercing blue eyes.
