**Diary Entry:**
My mum has always had the biggest heart. She spent her whole life putting my sister and me first. She worked as a schoolteacher, took on private tutoring in the evenings—all to make sure we never wanted for anything. We lost our dad early; he left when I was six and my sister was just three. Mum carried the weight alone, never complaining, never crying—just doing whatever she could to keep us afloat.
We grew up in Nan’s old flat, left to Mum in the will. It was a modest life, but a warm one. After school, my sister and I went to uni, got married, had kids. We visited Mum often, and she adored spoiling her grandkids—baking cakes, laughing with them. We thought she was happy. That our love, our hugs, our phone calls were enough. But they weren’t.
That year, my sister and I planned a birthday surprise. We told her we couldn’t make it—work was mad—but we were already on our way, loaded with balloons, flowers, and cake. When she opened the door, there wasn’t joy in her eyes—just confusion. She hesitated, muttered something about a student coming over for extra lessons. My sister and I exchanged a look. Then we stepped inside.
A man sat at the table. In just his underwear. A fag between his teeth, a pint in front of him. The *student*, apparently. Except he was middle-aged, balding, and definitely not a schoolboy. We were stunned but stayed quiet. The second he saw us, he jumped up, mumbled something about a work emergency, and bolted.
Mum, though? She was furious. Accused us of barging in unannounced. For six months, she ignored us—no calls, no texts. I hoped she’d cool off. Eventually, I went alone to make peace, to say we didn’t mind if she had someone.
He answered the door. And before I could speak, he snapped, *”She’s not in. And don’t come back.”* I tried to explain, but he—shoved me. I fell, hit my head. Diagnosed with concussion. When my husband found out, he raced over. Instead of sympathy, Mum spat accusations—*I’d* started it, *I’d* attacked *her* man. She took *his* side. The side of the man who’d laid hands on me.
We tried tracking him down, but he’d vanished. Weeks later, one of Mum’s students messaged me—desperate for money, saying she was in trouble. I was horrified. Mum wasn’t answering anyone. I warned all our relatives: *Don’t send her a penny, she’s fine.* Though I had no idea if she was.
Nearly a year passed. Then—a call. Mum. Crying. Voice shaking. And she told me everything.
Turns out, this *boyfriend* of hers had been working with his real girlfriend the whole time. They’d been after Mum’s flat. *He’d* turned her against us. She’d almost signed it over to him—until she stumbled on his messages. She threw him out then and there. Left alone, shattered. Only then did she remember us.
My husband and I drove to her that same day. Held her while she sobbed, begged forgiveness. We forgave her. Because she’s our mum. A tired, lonely woman who just wanted love—and got betrayal instead.
Now she’s back with us. Playing with the grandkids, baking scones. But sometimes she still glances out the window—checking. And we pray he never comes back.
