**Diary Entry – A Storm in the Quiet of Home**
After work, Emily stopped by the shop near her house in Manchester. She was already at the till when she spotted Auntie Margaret—an old friend of her mum’s from their days at the textile mill. Emily always made time for her.
She paid, stepped aside, and waited near the exit.
“Hello,” Emily greeted as the older woman approached. “Haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Em, love, hello. Been poorly, hardly left the house. Walk with me—need to tell you something.”
Emily’s stomach twisted. James was sixteen, that restless age, and little Sophie was already boy-crazy at thirteen. Had one of them done something daft? Her fingers ached from the weight of the shopping bags, the handles cutting into her palms. She nearly made an excuse to leave, but Auntie Margaret lowered her voice, leaning close.
“Don’t think I’m gossiping, love. Saw it with my own eyes. You’re like family. Your Tom’s been visiting that young woman in the house opposite mine. Soon as he steps in, curtains closed.”
Ice shot through Emily’s veins, then heat. She’d expected anything but this—not from Tom.
“Had to warn you. My conscience wouldn’t rest. Two kids you’ve got. What if he’s serious there? Better sort it now.”
“Right… Ta, Auntie Marg.” Emily hurried off, forgetting they lived on the same street.
Fumbling with the key, she finally let herself in, collapsing onto the footstool. The shopping bag slipped, spilling groceries. Sophie came out, picking them up.
“Take it to the kitchen. I need a minute,” Emily said sharply.
*How could he? If Auntie Marg saw, who else has? And the kids… and me, blind as a bat.*
“Mum, you alright? You look ill—”
“Go to your room. Let me think.”
Sophie hesitated but left.
*Good thing Tom’s not home. If he were, I’d have torn into him at the door. Emotions are rubbish advisors.*
She forced herself up, poured water, sipped slowly. Then she cooked, though her hands shook. The bangers browned in the pan while she stole glances out the window, searching for the house, the curtains.
The scrape of a key. She turned her back.
“Smells brilliant,” Tom said cheerfully.
“Wash up. Dinner’s ready.” Her voice was taut as a wire.
“What’s wrong?” He stepped closer.
“Saw Auntie Marg. Said she was ill… but that’s not it. She saw you. Going into that house opposite.”
“That old biddy’s lying—”
But his darting eyes told the truth.
“Others have seen it too. What were you *thinking*? If the kids find out—” Her whisper hissed. “I won’t live like this. Choose—her or us.”
“Em—” He reached for her. She jerked away.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Mum? Dad?” James stood in the doorway.
“Wash hands. Fetch Sophie. Dinner’s ready.” Emily forced a smile.
Days passed in silence, the tension thickening. She hoped he’d apologise, swear it was over. She pictured life without him—just her and the kids.
Then, while James was out and Sophie at a friend’s, Tom cleared his throat.
“We need to talk.”
“Go on.”
“Not making excuses. Just… her parents died in a car crash. Then her nan passed. I helped move her things. Don’t know what came over me. Pity, maybe. But now… she’s pregnant.”
Emily grabbed the chair.
“Haven’t seen her since we talked. But she met me at the door, told me. What am I supposed to do?”
“And us? The kids?” Her breath hitched.
“They’re old enough to understand.”
“*Understand*? Get out. Now. Before they’re back.”
She hurled the telly remote—plastic shattering. Tom caught her wrists.
“Calm down. I’ll go. Just let me talk to the kids.”
“Get. *Out*.”
He left. She crumpled onto the sofa, face in her hands.
Later, James found her sweeping up the pieces.
“Don’t cry, Mum. He’ll come back.”
“You… knew?”
“Heard you arguing. Good riddance.”
“He’s still your dad!”
“Not after this.”
The days blurred. Snow melted into spring. Tom didn’t return. One evening, a knock—not the bell.
Tom stood there, unshaven, red-eyed.
“Kids asleep,” he muttered.
She let him in.
“She’s gone. Collapsed. Called an ambulance, but…”
“The baby?”
“Born early. Alive.” He rubbed his face. “I’m poison. Hurt you, left the kids—”
“Tea?”
“Something stronger.”
“Don’t be daft. You’ve a child now.”
“Who needs me? I won’t take it from the hospital.”
“*You’d* let it go to care? With a living father?”
“I can’t. I’m leaving. Wales—rebuilding after the floods. Need to start over.”
“Running away? What about your son?”
He clenched his fists, knuckles white.
Her heart split—anger, pity. She made up the spare bed. He tossed all night.
At breakfast—like old times—she asked, “Stay?”
“Better this way.”
James avoided his hug. Sophie clung, sobbing.
Months passed. Tom’s letters came sporadically—apologies, updates. When James finished school, he announced, “Joining the Army.”
“*No*! You can’t leave us!”
“Nothing’ll happen. They won’t send me overseas.” He stood firm.
Then it was just her and Sophie—until the day James returned, safe.
Little Andy—Tom’s boy—toddled in. James scooped him up, laughing as the child squealed.
“You knew?” Emily gaped.
“Dad wrote. You did right, Mum.”
“You—you *speak* to him?”
“Regularly. He misses you. Still loves you.”
She sighed. “I forgave him ages ago.”
Later, James dropped the bomb. “I’m going to him, Mum.”
“You *can’t*!”
“I am.”
So she waited again, heart in every letter, every call. And little Andy tugged her dressing gown, calling her “Mum.”
**Lesson:** Distance doesn’t always mend what’s broken—sometimes it’s the quiet acts, the unspoken grace, that stitch the pieces back together. Even when love falters, it doesn’t always vanish. It just hides… waiting for the storm to pass.
