**Diary Entry**
For a month now, she’s been on the edge. Wounded, furious, utterly alone. Retreating into herself after her latest lover walked out. She truly believed this time would be different—that happiness was finally hers.
I’m 26. Her name is Lorraine, and she’s 44. Biologically, she’s my mother. In every other way, we’re strangers. She married my father at nineteen, and I arrived a year later—an unwanted child, as she never hesitated to remind me. They divorced soon after my birth, and from then on, she dismissed him as a “layabout” and a “failure.”
The irony? That “failure” has been happily married to his second wife for over twenty years. He owns a business, a sprawling country house just outside London, two flats, and even a cottage in the Lake District. He’s the one who gave my husband and me our home as a wedding gift.
I was raised by my grandmother—Dad’s mum. Later, he brought me into his new family, and I never once felt out of place. My stepmother is wonderful—she’s been more of a mother to me than Lorraine ever was. As for Lorraine? I’ve called her by her first name since childhood. And for good reason.
I was nine when she took me to Brighton for a “mother-daughter holiday.” I made the mistake of asking, “Mum, can we go to the beach?” Her shriek echoed through the entire hotel:
“Never call me *Mum*! It makes me sound old! It’s *Lorraine*, understand?”
I did. I never went away with her again. Men, salons, parties—those were her priorities. I stayed with Gran, then Dad and his new family. And thank God for that.
Over the years, Lorraine cycled through five husbands, with a string of lovers in between. She worked at an upmarket salon in Westminster, injecting every conceivable thing into her face—Botox, fillers, threads. Her expressions froze long ago, yet she clung to her delusion: “I’m still young—I’ve got my whole life ahead of me!”
Her last “prince” was two years younger than me—a lanky, tattooed bartender named Kyle from some neon-lit cocktail bar. “Darling, meet Kyle,” she gushed, glowing like a schoolgirl before prom. “We’re getting married. This is the real thing.”
I froze, then whispered, “Lorraine… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Kyle whooped, pouring champagne, shouting “Cheers!” while my mother turned grey. Without a word, she grabbed her bag, slammed the door, and vanished.
A week later, she reappeared in tears, her face twisted: “This is *your* fault! He left me! You ruined everything with your ‘grandmother’ nonsense! I won’t grow old—I’m only 37! I still have my life to live, and you’re dragging me into the grave with your children!”
I couldn’t believe it. The woman who gave birth to me called my pregnancy a betrayal. Then came the final blow, burning away the last shred of affection: “I never had a daughter. And I won’t have grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Forget I exist.”
She walked out.
We drove to my *real* family—Gran and Grandad. They held me, wept with joy, already planning names, babysitting shifts, knitting booties. *They* are my rock, my safe place.
As for Lorraine? Let her chase eternal youth. One day, she’ll wake to silence—an empty flat, a stranger’s face in the mirror, no reflection left of who she was. Maybe then she’ll realise what she threw away.
**Lesson:** Family isn’t just blood. It’s the people who stay—no matter what.
