**Diary Entry – 15th June**
*”You know how he looks at you? With love and admiration,” my daughter said, pleased with herself.*
Oliver stepped out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel. Droplets glistened on his toned chest. Not just a man—every woman’s dream. My heart ached sweetly in my chest.
He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head away.
“Don’t, or I’ll never leave. I have to go. Emily’s probably home already.” I pressed my cheek against his shoulder.
He sighed.
“Lottie, how much longer? When will you tell your daughter about us?”
“Three months ago, you didn’t even know I existed, and you were perfectly fine.” I stood and began dressing.
“I don’t think I was truly living before you. I can’t go a day without—”
“Don’t break my heart. Don’t walk me out,” I said, slipping from the room.
Outside, I avoided the stares of passersby, convinced they knew where I’d been. Men glanced with curiosity, women—with judgment.
Hard to blame them. I had the figure, the poise, the face with expressive eyes and full lips. Dark hair escaped my clip at the nape. I wished to disappear.
***
I married young, at twenty, deeply in love. Pregnancy came quickly. My husband urged me to terminate—too soon, he said, we needed stability first. I refused and had a healthy girl, hoping he’d bond with her. He never did. Some men are indifferent to children.
Then a woman called, revealing his evenings at a certain address. I waited, confronted him. Denials, excuses, then shouting:
“Some madwoman speaks, and you believe her? You’re no better. I’m leaving—you’ll regret this!”
He slammed the door. I didn’t want to live, but Emily needed me. Two weeks later, I stood by a tree outside that address. He walked past, arm in arm with a younger woman. They entered the building.
The next day, I filed for divorce. I knew myself—I couldn’t forgive. I enrolled Emily in nursery and returned to work.
Men came and went, but none stirred me enough to risk it. Years passed before Oliver—tall, handsome, my match—won me over. A whirlwind romance followed. Once, Emily asked where I went so dressed up.
“On a date,” I half-joked.
“Ohhh,” she drawled, but asked no more.
Emily took after my figure but not my face. People wondered how two attractive parents had an ordinary-looking child. I was relieved—beauty brings more trouble than joy.
I never had close friends. The envy of other girls saw to that. No one wanted to pale beside me. Perhaps that’s why I married so young—searching for a friend in a husband.
*”He’s a bit plain for you, even if handsome,”* Mum had said.
***
“Emily, I’m home,” I called, stepping inside.
“Homework,” she replied from her room.
I changed, then set the table. Emily joined me, tearing off bread.
“Don’t spoil your appetite,” I chided, serving dinner. “I need to talk.”
“Then talk,” she said between bites.
“My birthday’s soon.”
“I remember, Mum.”
“I’d like to invite… a friend.”
“The one you’re sleeping with?” She chewed calmly.
*”Seeing.* And mind your tone.”
“What’s the difference? At your age, dating means sleeping.”
“So, can I invite him? You don’t mind?”
“Whatever. Will Gran come?”
Relief washed over me. Fifteen was a tricky age, but she seemed unfazed.
“Gran’s visiting Sunday. I want you two to get along.”
“Whatever, Mum. Invite him.”
Saturday morning, I cooked to impress Oliver. He arrived with roses and a ring. I was stunned by his fervor.
He joked loudly, eager to charm Emily. She remained quiet, serious. After he left, I found her in her room.
“You didn’t like him?”
“No.”
“Why?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment.
“I just didn’t. Mum, he’s *using* you. Can’t you see?”
“Did Gran poison you against him?”
“This isn’t about Gran! I’ve got eyes.” Her gaze was desperate.
I turned to leave.
“Mum… do you love him?” she whispered. I nodded without looking back. “Then see him. Just don’t move him in.”
*”Why?”* I spun around.
“I don’t like him. That’s all.”
Strangely, I felt relief. Things with Oliver had moved too fast. That ring… He spoke endlessly of *our* future but shared little of his own. Emily was an afterthought.
Next day, he called, missing me. Didn’t ask if Emily liked him—arrogance or indifference?
I said Gran was visiting.
“Tomorrow, then?” he pressed.
“Tomorrow,” I agreed, relieved.
With Gran, Emily was lively. No mention of Oliver. *Perhaps she sees what I’m blind to,* I thought.
Oliver soon resumed pushing to live together. When I urged patience, he snapped:
“Emily’s selfish—robbing you of happiness! In a few years, she’ll leave, and you’ll be alone.”
“Are you ending it?” I asked.
“No, I just… spoke in anger.”
We parted coldly.
Two days later, Emily came home late.
“Where were you? Homework?”
“Done. Listen—me and Jamie found out about your Oliver.”
*”Found out?”*
“You don’t know the truth.” Her eyes gleamed.
“What truth?”
“He doesn’t live on Victoria Street. He’s on Kensington—with a *wife* and a little boy.”
I refused to believe. “Could be his sister, ex—”
“No, Mum. We watched. He didn’t leave. He smoked by the window, shirtless…” She faltered at my face.
I locked myself in the bathroom, stifling sobs.
Later, I stood on the balcony, numb. Emily was right. His flat had always felt staged—no personal touches, sparse fridge. A setup.
*How long would he have lied?* I’d been blind, infatuated.
“Mum!” Emily pulled me back. “You scared me!”
“I’m fine. Just… no more spying.”
Next day, I confronted Oliver, opening his wardrobe. Two shirts, bare shelves.
“You rent this place for us. You’re married.”
He paled, then lashed out: *”I thought you weren’t like other women—paranoid, petty!”*
“Call me mad, then. Are you married?”
He turned away. I left the ring on the table.
I wandered for hours. Letting go of love is like amputating a limb—necessary to save the rest. I’d done it before.
Three weeks later, Emily’s school year ended. Before her trip to Edinburgh, she asked:
“Mum… what about James from downstairs?”
“Who?”
“First floor. He *likes* you.”
I recalled the plain, bearded neighbor.
“Know how he looks at you?” she said smugly. “With love and admiration.”
“Sweet, but love’s not built on kindness.”
“Think about it,” she urged.
I did. Memories surfaced: him helping with the pram, “running into me” in slippers. The man who fixed locks for free, never took money. No one saw him with women.
After my divorce, he’d changed my lock.
“Why?” I’d asked.
“Safety. You’re alone now.”
Later, a neighbor told me my ex had tried to take things while I was out. James stopped him.
He’d always been there. Unseen.
Next evening, I knocked on his door. He opened instantly, as if waiting.
“My lock’s stuck. Could you check?”
“Just let me grab tools.”
Fifteen minutes later, he returned—clean-shaven, in a suit.
“You’re fixing locks dressed like that?” I laughed.
“The lock seems fine.” He smiled, crinkles fanning from his eyes.
The table was set for two.
“Sit. Emily’s away, and there’s too much food. Wine?”
“I don’t drink. Don’t fuss—sit.”
And so. Love had waited nearby all along.
**Lesson:** The heart’s compass points to those who’ve been there, quietly, all along. Not the loudest declarations, but the steady hands.
