**Diary Entry October 12th**
Probably no one survives a sentence like that unless theyve already lost so much theres barely anything left to take. So before you settle in, take a moment to like the video and subscribebut only if you truly 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, turn off the lights, maybe flick on the fan for some soft noise, and lets begin. I laugh.
Of course I laugh. I think hes joking. I mean, who does that? Who drives their motherwho buried her husband six days agoto the edge of town and tells her to get out? Im wearing old slippers. My husband Jamess slippers, in fact. 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 testing the waters. Like were still pretending.
Thats when he looks at me. And thats when I know. No blink, no tremble. Just hands me my handbag like its a takeaway container. *”The house and the inn are mine now,”* he says. *”Charlottes already changing the locks.”*
Charlotte, his wife, with her plastic-stretched smile and that soft, condescending tone that makes everything sound like a blessing and a warning at once. I blink hard, as if maybe the road will shift, maybe hell grin and say it was a mistake, a misunderstanding, a terrible joke. But he doesnt.
My doors already open. My slippers scrape the gravel. And before I can breathe, the car reverses.
*”This is mad,”* I say. My voice doesnt even shake. Its too calm for that. *”You cant justIm your mother, Oliver.”*
He doesnt answer. Just tosses over his shoulder: *”Youll understand. You always do.”* And then hes gone. No suitcases. 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. The wind tastes of salt and rust. The fog wraps around me, soft but heavy, like its memorising 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 alone. He set me free.
He thought he was discarding me. What he really did was open a door I didnt know existed. Because he has no idea what I did before his father died.
We buried James just six days before. I barely remember the funeral, except how the grass swallowed my heels and how Oliver wouldnt meet my eyes. Charlotte 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 hear. *”Shes not thinking straight. Its the grief. Shes not making rational decisions.”* At the time, I thought she meant to be kind. Now, standing in the fog, I realise what that moment really was. The first move in a coup.
James had trusted Oliver with the hospice paperwork. *”Didnt want to burden our son,”* Id told myself. 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 scope yetbut I knew enough to feel sickness blooming in my chest like fire under ice.
This wasnt just betrayal. It was theft. Of everything. My husband. My home. My voice. The inn James and I built from nothing, with paint-stained hands and second-hand furniture. The place that started with two rooms, a portable stove, and a heap of hope. Oliver had always been clever. Too clever. Even as a boy, he found loopholes. But that cleverness grew fangs when he paired with Charlotte. That woman could turn politeness into a weapon.
I started walking. Didnt know where, just knew I couldnt stay still. Not in that fog. Not in these slippers. My knees ached. My mouth was dry. But I walked. Past dripping trees, past moss-covered fences, past the ghosts of everything Id let go so my son could grow tall. Around mile three, something settled over me. Silent, 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. And most of all, my names still on that deed.
Im not dead yet.
The fog clung like sweat. My legs burned. But I didnt stop. Not because I wasnt tiredGod, I wasbut because if I stopped, Id think. And if I thought, Id break.
I passed under a power line. A crow watched from above, like it knew. Like it understood. I remembered the little notes I used to tuck into Olivers lunchbox. *”Youre brave. Youre kind. I love you.”* I cut his turkey sandwiches into dinosaurs. I read him four books every night. Even learned to braid action-figure hairstyles because he wanted warrior looks. And now? I was roadside rubbish. 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 that faded sign for *Doriss General Store*, my legs nearly gave out. Doris had run that shop since I was a teen. She used to sell hard sweets and newspapers. Now its lavender lattes and duck-shaped dog treats. The bell jingled when I walked in. Doris peered over her glasses. *”Margaret,”* she said, her voice sharp with concern. *”You look awful.”*
*”Feel awful,”* I replied, lips too cold to smile. She didnt wait. Just rounded 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 froze. *”Thats eight bloody miles.”*
*”Six and change,”* I muttered. She sat me down, bundled me in a fleece, and shoved a steaming coffee into my handssmelled like salvation. *”Wheres Oliver?”* My throat closed.
She stiffened. *”What dyou mean, gone?”* I couldnt answer. Not yet. She didnt push. Just said, *”Rest. Ill make you a sandwich.”*
And there I sat, swaddled in old kindnesses, blistered and bleeding pride, one phrase buzzing in my head like a prayer: *Whats love without respect?*
Doris offered to drive me somewhereanywhere. I said no. I wasnt ready for that sort of kindness yet. I called a cab from Doriss phone, paid with the emergency cash James 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 sleep when the roads too long. Not charming, not cosybut anonymous. I paid cash, signed a fake name, and clutched my bag to my chest like it could warm me.
The room smelled of lemon cleaner and wood panelling. The duvet 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: *”Youre right, James.”*
Then, softer, like I was telling it to the dust motes: *”I knew this was coming.”*
—
**Morning.**
I sat on the motel beds edge, wrapped in one of those scratchy hotel towels, fingers around a lukewarm lobby coffee. My bones achedbut not just from the walk. I was tired in a way sleep couldnt fix. Then a memory came, uninvited but not unwelcome: James and me, our first spring at the inn. 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,”* hed said.
That day, the sun caught the silver in his hair just right. He was laughing. Oliver was small then, maybe seven, chasing a green ball across the grass, hiccuping with laughter.
