**Diary Entry 12th March**
Probably you wouldnt survive a moment like that unless youd already lost so much there was barely anything left to take. So before you settle in, take a second to like the video and subscribebut only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. And while youre at it, tell me where youre listening from and what time it is. Lets see how many hearts are still beating tonight. Now, dim the lights, maybe switch on a fan for some quiet hum, and lets begin. I laugh.
Of course I laugh. I think hes joking. I mean, who does that? Who drives their motherstill in mourning six days after burying her husbandto the edge of town and tells her to get out? Im wearing old slippers. My husband Jamess slippers, actually. Ive been shuffling around the house in them since the funeral. They dont fit.
They never did. But I couldnt bring myself to wear proper shoes. Not yet.
Are you serious? I ask. My voice is light, like were playacting. Like were still pretending.
Thats when he looks at me. And thats when I know. No blink, no tremor. Just hands me my handbag like hes passing me a takeaway. The house and the B&B are mine now, he says. Olivias changing the locks.
Olivia, his wife, with her plastic-stretched smile and that soft, condescending lilt that makes everything sound like a blessing and a warning at once. I blink hard, as if the road might shift, as if he might grin and say it was a mistake, a misunderstanding, some cruel joke. But he doesnt.
My doors already open. My slippers scrape the gravel. And before I can even breathe, the car reverses.
This is insane, I say. My voice doesnt even shake. Its too calm for that. You cant justIm your *mother*, Daniel.
He doesnt answer. Just tosses over his shoulder, Youll understand. You always do. Then hes gone. No suitcase. No phone. No plan. Just a handbag, a coat, and the sound of tyres on wet tarmac fading like smoke.
I dont cry. Not then. I just stand there.
Spine straight. Wind tasting of salt and rust. The fog wraps around me, soft but heavy, like its trying to memorise my shape. I watch his taillights vanish. And with them, forty years of a life I helped build.
But heres what my son never understood. He didnt leave me stranded. He set me free.
He thought he was discarding me. What he really did was open a door he never knew existed. Because he has no idea what I did before his father died.
We buried James just six days earlier. I barely remember the funeral, except how the grass swallowed my heels and how Daniel wouldnt meet my eye. Olivia clung to his arm like ivy, strangling a fence post. I remember her leaning close to the vicar, whispering just loud enough for me to catch. Shes not thinking clearly. Its grief. Shes not making rational decisions.
At the time, I thought she was trying to be kind. I thought her intentions were good. But now, standing in the fog, I realise what that moment really was. The first move in a coup.
James had trusted Daniel with the hospice paperwork. I didnt want to burden my sonthats what I told myself. He had enough on his plate. All I wanted was to give James dignity in his final weeks. But somewhere between the medical forms and the insurance calls, something else slipped in. Something with my name. Something forged.
I didnt know the full extentnot yet. But I knew enough to feel sickness bloom in my chest like fire under ice. This wasnt just betrayal. It was theft. Of everything.
My husband. My home. My voice.
The B&B James and I built from scratch with paint-stained hands and secondhand furniture. The place that started with two rooms, a portable stove, and a heap of hope. Daniel had always been clever. Too clever. Even as a boy, he found the loopholes. But that cleverness grew fangs when he paired with Olivia. That woman could turn politeness into a weapon.
I started walking. I didnt know wherejust knew I couldnt stay still. Not in that fog. Not in those slippers. My knees ached. My mouth was dry. But I walked. Past dripping trees. Past moss-choked fences. Past the ghosts of everything Id let go so my son could grow tall.
Around mile four, something settled over me. Quiet, but firm. They think theyve won. They think Im weak. Disposable. But they forgot something. I still have Jamess ledger. I still have the safe deposit box. And most of all, I still have my name on that deed.
Im not dead yet.
The fog clung like sweat. My legs burned. My breath was shallow. But I didnt stop. Not because I wasnt tired. God, I was. But if I stopped, Id think. And if I thought, Id break.
A power line hummed overhead. A crow watched from a wire, like it knew. Like it understood.
I remembered the little notes I used to tuck into Daniels lunchbox. *Youre brave. Youre kind. I love you.* I cut his ham sandwiches into dinosaurs. I read him four books every night. I even learned to braid action-hero styles into his hair because he wanted to look like a warrior. And now? I was rubbish by the roadside. That boy who used to run into my arms after a nightmaregone. Replaced by a man who could toss me out like yesterdays recycling.
I dont remember how far I walked. Six miles, maybe more. But when I saw the faded sign for *Maggies Corner Shop*, my legs nearly gave out. Maggie had run that little shop since I was a teenager. She used to sell boiled sweets and newspapers. Now it was lavender lattes and duck-shaped dog treats.
The bell jingled. Maggie peered over her glasses. Eleanor, she said, voice pinched with worry. You look awful.
I feel awful, I replied, lips too stiff to smile. She didnt wait. Just came round the counter and wrapped me up before I could argue.
What the hell happened?
I looked down at my feet. Walked.
From where?
The crossroads.
She stilled. Thats eight bloody miles.
Six and a bit, I mumbled.
She sat me down, bundled me in a fleece, and pressed a steaming mug into my hands. It smelled like salvation. Wheres Daniel?
My throat closed. Empty.
She froze. What do you mean *gone*?
I couldnt answer. Not yet.
She didnt push. Just said, Rest. Ill make you a sandwich.
And I sat there, swaddled in old kindnesses, feet blistered and pride bleeding, one phrase humming in my skull like a prayer: *Whats love without respect?*
Maggie offered to drive me anywhere. I said no. I wasnt ready for that sort of kindness. Not yet. I called a cab from Maggies phone, paid with the emergency cash James had insisted I keep in my bag. He always said a woman should never be without a backup plan. Funny how that stuck when so much else faded.
The driver didnt ask questions, just took me down the road to a dingy motel with a flickering sign and a cracked ice machine. The sort of place lorry drivers crash when the motorway freezes. Not charming. Not cosy. But anonymous.
I paid in cash, signed a fake name, and clutched my bag to my chest like it could warm me. Inside, the room smelled of lemon cleaner and damp wood. The quilt was polyester. The bedside lamp buzzed like it was forgetting how to shine.
I didnt care. I stood in the middle of the room, dropped my bag, and whispered aloud for the first time since the funeral. You were right, James. Then, softer, like I was telling the dust motes: I knew this was coming.
The next morning, I sat on the edge of the motel bed, wrapped in one of those scratchy hotel towels, fingers curled around a lukewarm cup of lobby coffee. My bones ached, but not just from the walk. I was tired in a way sleep couldnt fix.
Then a memory cameuninvited, but not unwelcome. James and me, our first spring at the B&B. Dirt still under our nails, hands sore from hauling stones. We planted six rose bushes out fronttwo red, two peach, two yellow. James said people should smell something sweet when they stepped out of their cars. First impressions matter.
That day, the sun caught the silver in his hair just right. He was laughing. Daniel was small then, maybe
