**Diary Entry**
*Thursday, 10th June*
“First, you aged, and now you’re ill? That’s it—I’m filing for divorce!” my husband snapped, slamming the door behind him, not realising just how wrong he was…
I sat at the kitchen table, my phone clenched in my hand. The voice on the other end had just delivered news so shocking the world seemed to stop. My thoughts raced, dizzying and directionless. What was I supposed to do? The question pounded inside me, but no answer came.
I had no intention of sharing this burden. Years ago, I learned that people rarely rejoice in another’s happiness, and even rarer do they truly sympathise with sorrow. Words are one thing—what lies beneath them, no one knows.
Once, I could have told my parents everything. They were my foundation. But now they were gone, and I missed them more than ever. My husband? There was a time I trusted him completely. Lately, though, I’d noticed a chilling distance. More often than not, he’d make veiled remarks about age—how women wither sooner, how I’d ‘let myself go’.
But I didn’t see it. I still visited the hairdresser, kept my nails tidy after that disastrous salon visit, chose smart outfits. Of course, time had left its mark—but hadn’t it done the same to him? Other couples our age still strolled hand in hand, laughed, made plans. Yet here I was, alone more often than not, while he ‘worked late’. I knew better.
The children? My daughter, Emily, had just married and was expecting. My son, James, was studying in another city. I wouldn’t burden them. But one thing was certain—I needed to speak to my husband. I had to know if the man I’d once loved still existed.
That evening, I met Edward at the door with a steady gaze.
“Something wrong?” he asked, frowning.
“Yes,” I inhaled carefully. “I’ve had some bad news from the doctor. If I need help—will you be there?”
He shifted uneasily. “What sort of news?”
“That’s not the point,” I said. “The question is—will you stay if things get difficult?”
He sighed, ran a hand over his face, and sank into his armchair. “Look, Lydia… You’ve given me the perfect opening. I’ve been meaning to say this for a while. I’m leaving. You aged too fast, and now this illness… I’m sorry, but I can’t play nurse. I’ve got my whole life ahead, and this… It’s too much. There’s someone else, anyway. You’ll manage—you always do.”
Within minutes, he’d stuffed a bag and was gone. “I’ll collect the rest later. Get well. No hard feelings.”
The door slammed. I didn’t cry. Just smiled wearily. *Case closed.*
Days passed. I sat by the window, lost in thought, when my phone rang—James.
“Mum, you home?” he said brightly.
“Yes, love. When are you visiting?”
“That’s the surprise! I’ve been assigned placement work back home! Can you believe it?”
I laughed—the first time in ages my heart felt light.
A week later, he was back. That evening, I steeled myself.
“James, there’s something I need to tell you,” I began. “A solicitor called. Turns out… I wasn’t my parents’ biological child. My real mother left me as a baby, ran off with some wealthy man abroad. She became a widow, hired a detective to find me—but died in a plane crash before we could meet. Now… there’s an inheritance.”
He whistled. “Blimey. You having second thoughts?”
“Yes. She abandoned me—why should I take her money?”
“But if you don’t, it’ll go heaven knows where. This could set you up, Mum.”
“You’re right. But I’ve no idea where to start. No passport, no clue.”
“We’ll sort it,” he said firmly. “I’ll find us a solicitor.”
Soon, I stood on foreign soil, my escort—William, a sharp, kind solicitor—beside me.
“Lydia, I nearly turned this case down,” he admitted. “But something told me meeting you’d matter.”
I smiled.
Weeks passed—the estate took time to settle. William showed me the city, its history. And somehow, for the first time in years, I felt… happy.
At the airport, he hesitated. “I’ll miss you.”
“Come visit, then,” I said softly.
Back home, I divided the money—a flat for James, a trust for Emily, savings.
Edward? Forgotten. Until one night—a drunken slur at the door.
“Lydia… take me back.”
“Leave.”
“Who’d want you now?” he sneered.
Just then, the lift opened—William, flowers in hand.
“Good evening, Lydia.”
Edward paled.
“Go,” I repeated, shutting the door in his face.
Two years on—I’m a grandmother now. William proposed, and I said yes.
Then, the hospital called. Edward had suffered a stroke—he’d asked for us.
James scowled. “I wouldn’t go.”
“Darling, being decent means knowing how to forgive.”
In that sterile room, Edward looked frail, diminished.
“Sorry…” he whispered.
I shook my head. “I’ll arrange a carer. That’s all.”
That evening, in the garden, William took my hand.
“Regret it?”
“No. Without him, I’d never have known real happiness.”
I met his eyes and smiled.
