**Diary Entry**
I know what it’s like to lose everything and still keep going. I know the weight of hiding tears behind everyday chores, behind the quiet smile I force at dawn. And I know the sting of betrayal from the ones you’d sacrifice everything for. My name is Margaret. If someone had told me a year ago that my only daughter would cast me out like a stray, I’d have laughed in their face. But life strikes where it hurts most.
My husband and I shared twenty years of quiet devotion. He worked at a grain mill—honestly, without grand ambitions, just providing for us. His death came suddenly: his sleeve caught in the machinery, and he was gone. Only fragments remained. That was the first crack in my heart. I was left alone with our two children—our son and daughter. Our son enlisted soon after, only to return in a zinc coffin. Some lad thought it funny to play with his rifle. He pulled the trigger. My boy was gone.
Grief nearly swallowed me whole. But there was Emily—my youngest, my hope. I clung to life for her. She was finishing school, bright and beautiful, full of dreams. When a polished, wealthy suitor came into her life, I dared to hope: perhaps she’d find happiness at last.
The wedding was swift. Emily wanted it “like in the films”—a grand reception, a corseted gown, a limousine. I emptied myself for it: took loans, sold my jewellery, spent every last penny of my savings. For her. Her in-laws were cold, reserved. I disliked them instantly. They looked down on me, spoke as if to hired help. But I held my tongue—I wouldn’t spoil her day.
After the wedding, the newlyweds came to me. “Mum,” she said, “you’ve always said how hard it is to find a home these days. Let’s sell your flat and buy one for us.” At first, I thought it a joke. But Emily persisted. She wept, swore she’d be grateful forever. They convinced me. They promised they’d find me a place once things settled. They bought a spacious two-bedroom in London, while I moved to my mother’s crumbling cottage in the Yorkshire Dales—a forgotten relic of time.
Life there was lonely and hard. I hardly knew a soul. Once, I longed to visit the city—to tend the graves of my husband and son. I called Emily, but she didn’t answer. So I went unannounced. Her husband answered the door, unsmiling. He let me in, but barely. Emily brightened, but he cut her short. She sat me in the kitchen, fed me, then said, “Mum, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay. I’ll call you a cab to the station.” I stared at her, uncomprehending. This was my daughter, the one I’d given everything to.
I refused the cab. The night was bitter, the buses long stopped. I slept on a bench beneath their building. I didn’t regret it—at least I’d visited the cemetery, spoken to my loves.
I returned home and vowed never to visit her again. Let her come to me when she remembered.
Nearly a year passed. Then, one evening, the gate creaked. Emily stood there—pregnant, a bag in hand, her eyes hollow. She wept. Her husband had thrown her out. The one I’d lost my home for. “What of the flat?” I asked. “It’s in his name,” she whispered. “His mother co-signed the deeds for renovations. Mum, I’ve got nothing left.”
I went to her in-laws. They shoved papers in my face: the flat was bought during the marriage, so it was split fairly. My money? Forgotten. I begged for compensation—they laughed. Said the refurbishments had “covered my share.”
I took it to court. But the law doesn’t side with mothers who trust words over receipts. My case was dismissed. Everything was legally sound—just not right.
Emily stayed with me. Ashamed, weeping, begging forgiveness. And I looked at her and felt that same old love. I held her, kissed her forehead, and said, “You’re my daughter. I’m here as long as I can be.”
Perhaps her husband’s conscience prickled. After our granddaughter was born, he sent me £10,000—without a word. It came when we needed it most—the winter was cruel. Emily urged me to buy a modest flat in town. I said I’d think on it. But I gazed out the window—toward where two graves lay—and whispered, “Forgive me. I couldn’t shield her. But I’ll stand by her… while I can.”
