**Diary Entry – A New Chapter?**
A rare day off—I could have stayed in bed, but instead, I stretched, pushed back the duvet, and got up. I washed my face, brewed fresh tea, then sipped it slowly, gazing out at the dreary courtyard with its peeling trees and rain-soaked puddles. The sky was a solid sheet of grey, threatening to scatter fine snowflakes any moment.
But I had to step outside, if only to take out the rubbish. Moping at home had grown tiresome. Nothing would bring Oliver back. When someone you love dies, it feels like a part of you dies with them. I still feel that hollowness inside, no matter how hard I try to fill it. Time doesn’t heal—it buries the pain deeper, dulls the memories. I’m exhausted from grief, from tears. How do you go on when the person who gave your life meaning is gone?
We met at university. On the very first lecture, he slid into the seat beside me—a bright-eyed bloke, curious and full of joy, just like me. Soon, we were dashing through corridors together, hunting for classrooms, racing to the canteen between lectures. By fifth year, we understood each other without words, like an old married couple.
*”How will I live without you? I can’t imagine it. We’ll graduate, go our separate ways… Listen, what if we don’t?”* he asked one day.
*”What are you suggesting?”* I countered.
*”Marry me,”* he blurted.
*”Is that a proposal?”* I feigned seriousness. *”I’d almost given up waiting. Fine—I’ll say yes.”*
*”Really?”* His grin was instant.
*”Don’t look so pleased. Proposing isn’t enough. You need love.”*
*”We’ve grown into each other. Who says I don’t love you? Do you love me?”*
I’d asked myself that often. The answer was always yes. I’d have died if he’d fallen for someone else. We married that August. I’d lived with my parents; Oliver had moved from a small town for uni. Both families pitched in to buy us a one-bed flat. We agreed—no kids yet. It all felt like playacting at first, but years passed, and we were happy. Two years later, Oliver and his mate Victor started a small business.
I played it safe, keeping my job as a safeguard. But they succeeded, and I joined them, handling the books to avoid surprises. Another two years, and we upgraded—a spacious flat, a car, holidays abroad twice a year, albums of photos and videos. After he died, I deleted them all from my desktop. I couldn’t look without sobbing.
I remember that cursed day in painful detail. A weekend. We were at breakfast when his phone rang. He rushed to leave.
*”Where are you going?”*
*”Victor messed up—client’s pulling funds. Got to sort it.”* He pecked my cheek and left. If I’d known it was the last time I’d see him… No foreboding. Just regret that I let him go alone.
An hour later, the police called. Accident. Hospital. I took a taxi, clinging to hope until the officer led me to the morgue.
Oliver’s death ended my life too. Victor arranged the funeral, told me to take my time, not to rush back to work…
I changed out of the shorts and vest I’d worn all morning. Oliver loved me in them—said I looked sexy. Two months had passed. Time to crawl out of hiding. I owned half Oliver’s business now. Monday loomed—time to face it. If I couldn’t handle it, I’d sell my share to Victor, take a holiday, start fresh.
I grabbed the rubbish and stepped out. The air was milder than I’d thought. After tossing the bag, I wandered, chilled, into a shop, emerging with a cornflower-blue dress. I couldn’t resist—I needed something for work. My old clothes hung off me like rags.
My friend Tanya once said if *she* had died, not Oliver, he wouldn’t have buried himself alive. I’d agreed. Men grieve differently—less sensitive.
Monday brought sympathetic whispers and piled-up paperwork. Signing tired my hand. By the end, I skimmed blindly.
I took the bus home—Oliver’s car was wrecked beyond repair. Overheated, I got off early, walking the rest. A breeze teased my blue scarf. The park ahead led straight home.
*”Look at her, dolled up. Rolling in her husband’s money, isn’t she? Doesn’t care a child’s starving.”* A voice behind me. I turned.
A woman in her seventies sat on a bench, staring. *”Talking to me?”*
*”Who else?”* She smirked. *”You’re Eleanor Victoria. Oliver Victoria’s widow. Right? Then I am.”* Her black eyes pinned me.
*”What starving child?”* Curiosity overrode sense. I stepped closer.
*”His. Your husband’s.”* A dry chuckle. *”Sit before you fall.”*
I perched on the bench’s edge. She nodded approval.
*”Your man was carrying on with my neighbour, Daisy. Got her pregnant, paid her off. Never visited, just sent money. No parents, that one. When he died, she was left with nothing. Thought you should know. You’ve got his money, his flat. The child’s innocent.”* She thrust a scrap of paper at me. *”Here’s her address. See for yourself.”*
I took it, numb. *”Oliver wouldn’t… He’d have told me…”*
*”Saw him at Daisy’s with my own eyes. Swear on the Bible.”*
I left, shivering, replaying her words. Impossible. I’d have noticed. I called Tanya instead of Daisy, begging her over.
*”What do I do?”* I spilled everything.
*”Wives are always last to know. But Oliver? Never.”* Tanya mused. *”Don’t contact Daisy. She’ll twist you. I know a PI—ex-police. Helped a colleague’s son once. I’ll call him.”*
A scruffy, unshaven man reeking of whiskey arrived. *”Apologies—rushed. Let’s cut to it.”*
I repeated the story, handed him cash.
*”Interesting. You haven’t told Victor you’re selling your share?”*
*”No. Should I?”*
*”No. He’s likely behind this. Wants your half cheap. Play sick. Sign nothing.”*
Days of dread passed. The PI, now sober, met me at a café.
*”Oliver visited Daisy once. Victor’s the regular. Here’s proof.”* He showed a video—Victor kissing a baby, chatting with a young woman (Daisy). A muffled recording followed:
*”How long must we hide?”* Daisy’s voice.
*”Patience. We’ll be rich soon. I slipped Eleanor those papers—she signed…”*
My stomach dropped. *”I signed something… bank documents…”*
*”He’s exploiting you. Probably staged Oliver with Daisy—drugged him, took photos. Money makes monsters of friends.”*
Five days later, the PI had DNA results. *”Victor’s the father.”*
Relief. *”Confront him tomorrow. Bluff—say the neighbour talked. Use the video. I’ll be there.”*
I did. Victor paled, called for coffee, then slipped something into mine. As I slurred, the PI burst in with police.
Greed undid him. I kept the business, hired professionals. Daisy vanished. The PI now heads my security.
Oliver smiles from his framed photo, forever young. I wish I’d given him a child. But life, it seems, had other plans.
