**Diary Entry – A Lesson in Love and Loss**
*Tuesday, 15th September*
“You were the one who suggested taking Mum in. I never forced you,” Oliver said to Emily.
Emily had started working at the firm right after university, where Oliver was already employed. He’d noticed the quiet, pretty girl straight away. As the veteran, he offered to show her around the office, then waited for her outside in his car after work. Soon, they were dating. Six months later, they married.
Oliver had only just bought a flat—no money left for renovations. Emily’s parents helped. The young couple threw themselves into decorating their first home, shopping for wallpaper, painting late into the evenings. They even roped in friends, laughing as they worked. Emily picked out furniture and little trinkets to make it cosy. When the renovations were done, they celebrated with a proper housewarming. Now, it was time to enjoy life.
“Brilliant, isn’t it? Let’s hold off on kids for a bit. Go on holiday first, relax, then…” Oliver would say to Emily.
June was warm and bright, the air thick with floating cottonwood seeds. The holiday season arrived. Evenings were spent browsing hotels, booking flights—until disaster struck from nowhere, shattering their plans.
One morning, as Emily touched up her mascara at the kitchen table and Oliver waited for the kettle to boil, the phone rang.
“Em, coffee’s ready,” he said, picking up.
She lifted the cup to her lips.
“What?!” Oliver barked into the phone.
Emily’s hand jerked. Scalding liquid spilled, burning her lips.
“What happened?” she asked, watching his face darken.
“Mum’s in hospital. Neighbour called. I’ll go—see what’s wrong. Can you get to work on your own? Let them know I’ll be late.”
“Yes, of course,” Emily murmured, staring at the brown puddle on the table.
“Leave it. The bus won’t wait,” Oliver said, and she obeyed, rushing out.
At the bus stop, she caught a glimpse of Oliver driving past, honking briefly. She waved absentmindedly, still tasting burnt lips.
Three hours later, he walked into her office.
“How bad?” she asked.
“Bad. Stroke. Right side paralysed. Can’t speak. Doctor says recovery’s unlikely. She can’t live alone.”
“Then let’s bring her home. What’s there to think about? Or d’you plan to visit every evening? She needs feeding, changing… This way, we save time.”
Oliver agreed. Emily almost felt he’d been waiting for her to say it.
Three weeks later, his mother, Mabel, was discharged. They gave her their bedroom.
“Maybe we take leave in turns to care for her? We can’t leave her alone,” Emily whispered in the kitchen.
“Em, you’re better at this. Stay home tomorrow—I’ll sort remote work for you. We spent everything on the flat. No money for a nurse. Medicine, physio… It’s too much.” Oliver spoke firmly. Again, she obeyed.
Days blurred. Spoon-feeding Mabel, changing nappies. If Emily sat at her laptop, Mabel would moan for her. Then came groceries, cooking. By evening, she was dead on her feet.
Exhaustion festered into resentment. Oliver didn’t lift a finger—just popped in to say hello. Work piled up; her boss sent documents back for corrections. Then came the call—Oliver had arranged her redundancy. Replaced her.
“Can’t you even hold a spoon?! Help me, for God’s sake!” Emily snapped once.
“How dare you decide for me?” she lashed out at Oliver.
“You’re not coping.”
“You could help. I’m breaking here… The stench—I change nappies, air the room, and she moans about the cold.”
“You offered. I didn’t force you,” Oliver said.
Emily froze. *She* had shouldered this burden.
One night, Oliver came home drunk from a work do. Emily, still awake, met him with shouts. They argued daily now. She’d had enough. Yanking dresses from the wardrobe, she hurled them onto the sofa.
“I’m done. *Your* mother—*you* care for her. I’m leaving.”
A mournful sound came from the bedroom.
“*What now?*” Emily stormed in.
Tears streaked Mabel’s cheeks. Emily wiped them away. Suddenly, Mabel gripped her nightdress, whimpering:
“Don’… don’ go…”
Emily crumpled onto the bed, sobbing. Mabel stroked her hair.
“Forgive me… I’m just so tired.” She fled—straight into Oliver in the doorway. Her glare could’ve burned him.
Next day, she went to her friend’s flat. Wine flowed; tears followed.
“Just… speed things up?” her friend suggested, raising a brow.
“How could you?! If it were *my* mother—” Emily snapped.
She never visited that friend again. But the thought had crossed her mind too. It terrified her.
A month later, Mabel died in her sleep. The paramedic said her tongue had blocked her airway. Emily blamed herself—she’d slept through it.
At the funeral, she felt nothing. Oliver wiped his eyes. *Didn’t lift a finger, but now the tears?* Disgusted, she left before the coffin was lowered.
“Emily!”
She turned. A man smiled—wind whipping his long coat like wings.
“Daniel! Harris?”
“The one. You looked miles away. Funeral?”
“Mother-in-law.”
“Rough time?”
She nodded.
“Lost my mum four months back. Cared for her a year. Wife left the second Mum took ill. So… I get it.”
“You did it *alone*?”
“She was my mum. Your husband still at the grave?”
She glanced back.
“Need a lift? I’ve got the car.”
As they passed the cemetery gates, her phone buzzed.
“Where are you? I’m at the car—you’re not here.” Oliver’s voice was calm. *Performance over.*
“Tired. Going home.” She hung up.
“It’ll pass. Fancy a drink? Helps, trust me.”
They sat in a café. The wine was sharp, delicious. She gulped it. Daniel slid a plate of salad toward her.
Then the floodgates opened. He listened, warm hand over hers.
*Oliver never touches me anymore. Is it over? Mabel’s gone—we could fix things. But do I want to?*
“It’s my fault. I wished her dead, then slept through—”
“Not your fault,” Daniel said softly.
Back at her flat, Oliver confronted him.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Let her sleep,” Daniel said.
When Emily woke, Oliver was gone. A call came—Daniel’s voice, cheerful.
“Fish, how’s the head?”
“Ruined.”
“Hot shower, strong tea. Come by later—job for you.”
She arrived at his office by evening.
“French, English, some German?” she said when he asked.
“Perfect. You’re hired—translator for overseas clients. Start tomorrow?”
She smiled for the first time in weeks.
Oliver wasn’t pleased. “I could’ve got your old job back.”
On the fortieth day, she visited the grave alone. Autumn mud clung to her shoes. Withered flowers lay discarded. She replaced them.
Mabel’s photo stared back, guilty—or was it just her imagination?
“Forgive me. Thank you… for showing me the truth. I’m leaving him.”
With her first paycheck, she rented a flat, filed for divorce. Oliver pleaded for her return. Packing her things, the flat felt suffocating—yet the sickness had faded.
“You with him?” Oliver asked as she left.
“No. Just work. We were classmates.”
“Why’d you ignore me at school?” she asked Daniel over lunch weeks later.
“I didn’t. You were too busy studying. Fish and Hawk—never a match.”
“Not Fish anymore. *Emily Harris* has a nice ring.”
“Easily fixed. Marry me?”
Mabel’s illness had been a test—one their love failed. People enter your life for a reason. Maybe this was hers.
After the hurt, the betrayal, Emily couldn’t pretend nothing happened. She’d changed. Mabel’s death, Oliver’s indifference—they’d set her free.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t just vows. It’s showing up. And sometimes, walking away is the bravest act of all.
