15May2025 Diary
I am sixty years old and have lived most of my life in Birmingham. I never imagined that after two decades of quiet, uneventful retirement, the past would stride back into my world with such cold, dry humour. The most painful part is that the one who set it all in motion is none other than my own son.
When I was twentyfive, I fell hopelessly in love with Sarah. Tall, charming, full of life she seemed the very picture of a dream come true. We married quickly, and a year later our son, Harry, was born. The early years felt like a fairytale. We lived in a modest flat, whispered plans for the future, and nurtured each others hopes. I taught at a secondary school; she worked as a civil engineer. It seemed nothing could shatter our happiness.
But Sarah changed. She began coming home later and later, telling little lies, and keeping a distance. At first I dismissed the rumours, ignored the strange perfume lingering on her coat, and pretended everything was fine. Eventually the truth could not hide any longer: she was cheating, and not just once. Friends, neighbours, even our parents knew. I clung to the marriage for Harrys sake, hoping she would see reason. One night I woke to find the house empty; the silence told me that the illusion was over.
I gathered what we owned, took fiveyearold Harry by the hand, and moved in with my mother. Sarah made no attempt to stop us. A month later she left for the Continent, claiming work obligations, and soon after found another partner. No letters, no calls just a void. My mother passed away, then my father. Harry and I navigated everything together: school, hobbies, illnesses, joys, and his Alevels. I took three shifts at the college to make sure he never wanted for anything. There was never time for a relationship of my own; he was everything.
When Harry secured a place at the University of Oxford, I supported him as best I could sending parcels, a modest sum of money, and endless encouragement. I could not buy him a flat; my pension simply would not stretch that far. He never complained, insisting he would manage on his own. I was proud of him.
A month ago Harry came home with news: he intended to marry. The excitement faded quickly; his eyes darted away, his hands trembled. Then he blurted out:
Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.
I was frozen. He told me he had recently reestablished contact with Sarah. She had returned to the UK and offered him the keys to a twobedroom flat she inherited from her grandmother. But there was a condition: I would have to marry Sarah again and allow her to live in my current flat.
My breath caught. I looked at my son, unable to believe he was serious. He went on:
Youre alone you have no one. Why not try again? For me. For your future family. Dad has changed
I slipped into the kitchen, kettle whistling, tea trembling in my hands. The world blurred. Twenty years I had carried this life alone. In all that time Sarah never once asked how we were faring. And now she returns with a gift.
I returned to the living room and said calmly:
No. I cannot agree.
Harry exploded. He shouted accusations, claimed I had always thought only of myself, that without me he would have never known a father, that I was now ruining his life again. I stayed silent, because each word cut deep. He did not know the sleepless nights I endured, the way I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat, the sacrifices I made so he could have a proper meal while I went hungry.
I am not lonely. My life has been hard but honest. I have work, books, a garden, and good friends. I do not need a man who once betrayed me now returning not out of love but convenience.
Harry left without goodbye. He has not called since. I know he is hurt; I understand his desire to secure a future, just as I once did for him. Yet I cannot sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too steep.
Perhaps one day he will understand. Perhaps not. I will wait, because I love him with a love that has no conditions, no flats, no ifthen. I brought him into this world and raised him. I will not let love be reduced to a commodity.
My exwife belongs in the past, exactly where she should be.
Lesson learned:True worth is measured not in bricks and mortar, but in the integrity we keep when no one else is watching.
