**Diary Entry – 16th May**
Matthew pulled up to the cemetery gates and exhaled deeply. Bloody hell—how many times had he meant to come here? How often had he pushed it off for “later”? When his mum was alive, there was never time. After she passed, it was as if the past had no place left in his life.
Truth was, he should’ve woken up sooner. Realised the world he’d built around himself was just a façade. Every word, every gesture, hollow as a tin can. Ironic, really—he almost had to thank Natasha, his ex-wife, for tearing that house of cards down. One sharp blow, and it all collapsed. Their picture-perfect marriage, his so-called “real” friendships—only to find his wife and his best mate, and all those friends who’d known and stayed silent. It wasn’t just a betrayal. It was a gut punch he still hadn’t recovered from.
After the divorce, he fled to his hometown. Eight years since he’d buried his mum. *Eight.* And not once had he visited her grave. Only now, with nothing good left in his life, did he understand the simplest truth: she’d been the only one who’d never betray him.
He’d married late—thirty-three to Natasha’s twenty-five. Treated her like a trophy. She was beautiful, polished, “high society,” or so he’d thought. Now, all he remembered was her face twisted in rage, the venom she’d spat: how she’d hated him their whole short marriage, how every night with him had been agony. He still didn’t know how he’d been so blind. She’d cried, begged forgiveness, claimed she’d felt alone—but the second he said “divorce,” the mask slipped. There she was. The real her.
Matthew climbed out, grabbing a large bouquet from the back seat. Walked slow, eyes on the ground. The path was probably overgrown. He hadn’t even come when they’d set the headstone—handled it all online. A fitting symbol for his life: everything at arm’s length, nothing real.
But the grave was tidy. Headstone clean. Fresh flowers, soil neatly turned. Someone had cared for it. One of Mum’s old friends, maybe. Though… clearly not her son.
He unlatched the gate and whispered, “Hello, Mum.”
His throat clenched. Eyes burned. Matthew hadn’t expected to cry. He was a businessman, cold, calculated, always composed. Now he sobbed like a child. Didn’t stop the tears. They were freeing, washing away everything tied to Natasha, to betrayal, to pain. As if Mum were right there, stroking his hair, murmuring, *”There, there, love… It’ll be alright.”*
He sat for ages. Silent. But in his head, he talked. Remembered childhood: skinned knees, Mum dabbing iodine, saying, *”It’ll heal, you won’t even see the scar.”* And it did. With time. The pain always faded. But she’d add, *”You get used to anything—except betrayal.”*
Now, he understood every word. Back then, they’d just been comforting phrases. Turned out, they were wisdom.
Paying the neighbour to watch the house wasn’t the issue, but how long could he leave it empty? He smiled, recalling how he’d met the neighbour. He’d been a wreck. But her daughter—Lucy—had been so kind… They’d talked, and one thing led to another. He’d left at dawn, a note about where to leave the keys. From her view, maybe it was rotten. But he’d promised nothing. It was mutual. Fresh out of a marriage to a tyrant, she’d told him how hard it’d been. Two lonely people. Temporary comfort.
“Excuse me, mister, could you help?”
Matthew turned sharply. A little girl, seven or eight, stood there with an empty bucket.
“I need water for the flowers. Mum and I just planted them, but she’s poorly now. It’s so hot—they’ll die! But the bucket’s too heavy. Don’t tell Mum I came alone, though. If I take tiny bits, she’ll still notice I’ve been gone.”
Matthew grinned. “Course. Show me where.”
The girl chattered non-stop. In five minutes, he learned nearly everything: how Mum ignored advice and drank cold water, how they’d come to tend Gran’s grave (passed a year ago), how Gran would’ve scolded her. She’d been in school a whole year, dead set on top marks—wanted to finish with straight A’s, maybe even a gold medal!
With every word, Matthew felt lighter. Kids were pure magic. He thought how he’d wanted a real family—a wife who loved him, a child waiting at home. Natasha had been like a porcelain doll: lovely, lifeless. Children? Never discussed. “You’d have to be daft to ruin your figure for a screaming lump,” she’d said. Five years together. And now? Not one warm memory.
He patted the girl’s shoulder as she watered the flowers. Glanced at the headstone—and froze. The photo was… the neighbour. Lucy’s mum. This girl’s gran.
“Margaret Elizabeth was your gran?”
“Yeah! Did you know her? Oh, wait—you knew Auntie Margaret!”
Matthew blinked. “So you… live here with your mum?”
“Yeah? I *told* you—Mum won’t let me come alone.”
Matthew stared. So Lucy had come back. Had a daughter. He’d had no idea. Wait—how old was Molly? Maybe she came after?
The girl dashed off, reminding him not to worry Mum.
Back at his mother’s grave, Matthew sat, thoughtful. Something had shifted. Likely, Lucy tended the house now. He’d been paying *her*, not her mum. But that hardly mattered.
Later, he drove to the house. His chest ached. Everything was the same—as if Mum might step onto the porch any second, wiping tears on her apron, hugging him. He stayed in the car a long time. She didn’t appear.
But the garden was a surprise: neat, blooming. Lucy *had* cared. He’d thank her properly.
Inside was spotless, lived-in. He sat at the table briefly—needed to settle things with Lucy, then he could rest.
Molly answered the door.
“Oh, it’s *you*!” she whispered, finger to lips. “Don’t tell Mum we met at the cemetery!”
Matthew mimed zipping his lips. She giggled. “Come in!”
“Mum, Mr. Matthew’s here!”
Lucy appeared—then froze.
“You…?”
Matthew smiled. “Hi.”
No sign of a husband. None.
“Matthew, I’m sorry… I didn’t tell you about Mum passing. Work’s scarce here, so I’ve been tending the house.”
“I’m sorry, Luce. And thank you—for the house. Walking in… it’s like Mum just stepped out.”
“Staying long?”
“A few days.”
“Selling?”
He shrugged. “Haven’t thought. Here—for your work. A bonus.” He slid an envelope across the table.
“Thanks, Mr. Matthew!” Molly beamed. “Mum’s wanted a new dress forever, and I want a bike!”
Matthew laughed. Ah, that spirit!
By evening, he was ill. Fever spiked. Found Mum’s old thermometer—high. No idea what to take, so texted the neighbour. Now he knew it was Lucy.
*”What do you take for fever?”*
Ten minutes later, they were at his door.
“Christ, why’d you go inside? I *gave* you this!”
“Come off it, you’re poorly—why’d *you* come?”
“I’m better now!”
Lucy handed him pills. Molly brewed tea.
“You’ll burn yourself!” Lucy fretted.
“Who, Molls? Never! She’s clever as a whip!”
Matthew smiled—then something clicked. Like solving a puzzle as a kid.
“Luce…?”
She tensed. “What?”
“When was Molly born?”
Lucy sank into a chair. “Why?”
“*Lucy.*”
She turned to Molly. “Love, pop to the shop—get lemons. And juice.”
Once she’d gone, Lucy spoke.
“Matthew, let’s be clear: Molly’s nothing to do with you. We’re fine. Forget it.”
“*Forget* it? Is it true?”
“I decided to keep her. You weren’t part of it—so I didn’t tell. Never thought you’d turn up. Never thought you’d *care*.”
“You think I wouldn’t want to know I have a daughter?”
Lucy shrugged. “We managed. Obviously.”
Matthew was stunned. All these years, living a lie. Real happiness? Right here. In a little girl and the woman he’d always loved.
“Lucy—what now? Please, don’tHe wrapped them both in his arms, whispering, “No more pretending—we’re finally home.”
