**Diary Entry – 15th May**
I’ve always carried those words in my heart, the ones my grandmother and mother repeated like a mantra: “In our family, love never lasts.” My great-grandmother was a widow at twenty-two. Grandmother lost her husband in a factory accident. Mother raised me alone after Dad left before I turned three. I never truly believed in curses, but a part of me always braced for heartbreak—even though I longed for warmth, for a home, for love and children of my own.
I met my husband, Edward, at the packaging plant where I worked. He was in a different department, but we kept running into each other in the canteen. Things moved quickly—a few dates, a proposal, then marriage. He moved into my grandmother’s old flat after she passed. Mum was gone by then too. At first, life was steady. Our first son was born, then the second. I threw myself into caring for them—cooking, cleaning, raising them the best I could. Edward worked, brought home the wages, but he came home less and spoke even less.
When he started staying late, smelling of another woman’s perfume, I knew. I was too afraid to confront him—terrified of being left alone with two boys. But one evening, I finally broke.
“Think of the children, please,” I begged.
Silence. Just ice in his stare. No excuses, no shouting. The next morning, I made breakfast. He didn’t touch it.
“All you’re good for is cleaning up after people,” he spat.
A week later, he was gone. Just packed his things and walked out.
“Don’t leave us!” I cried, chasing him down the hall. “The boys need their father!”
“You’re nothing but a pitiful maid,” he said again. The boys heard. They sat huddled on the sofa, confused, wondering what they’d done wrong.
I couldn’t collapse. I lived for them. Took jobs as a cleaner, scrubbed stairwells, hauled water, taught them to read, washed clothes by hand when the machine broke. The boys grew up fast, helping where they could. I forgot about myself, about being a woman, about dreams. But fate has a way of surprising you.
One day at the grocer’s, a tin of tea slipped from my bag. A stranger picked it up and smiled.
“Need a hand with those?”
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
“I’ll help anyway,” he said, already lifting my bags.
His name was Henry. He started showing up at the same shop every day, then walked me home, then appeared in the hallway to help with chores. The boys were wary at first, but he was kind, patient. He brought cake and white roses the first time he stayed for supper. When my eldest joked, “You play basketball or something?” he laughed.
“Back in school, maybe. Been a while.”
Later, he admitted, “I was in an accident. Speak slower now, move a bit stiff. My wife left. I’d understand if you wanted me gone too.”
“If the boys are happy, stay,” was all I said.
He offered me his hand. His heart. Asked to speak to the children.
“Maybe I could be a proper father to them.”
That night, I explained everything. The boys hugged me.
“Our real dad left and forgot about us,” the youngest said. “Would be nice to have one who stays.”
And so Henry became family. He taught them football, helped with homework, fixed shelves, made them laugh. The house felt alive again. Years passed. The boys grew into men. When my eldest, James, fell in love, he asked Henry for advice.
That was when the doorbell rang.
Edward stood there.
“I was a fool. Take me back. We can fix this—”
“Get out,” James snapped.
“Is that any way to speak to your father?” Edward shouted.
“You don’t talk to my son like that,” Henry said firmly.
“We don’t need you,” my youngest added. “We’ve got a dad.”
The door shut. For good.
I stood there, looking at the three of them—my protectors, my family, the life I’d fought for and built from nothing. For the first time, I was happy. Truly happy.
