**Diary Entry**
I never imagined my own son, Edward, could hurt me and his younger sister so deeply. His betrayal is like a knife to my heart, shattering the trust I had in him all these years. This is a story of shattered hopes, a mother’s love, and a family torn apart.
My name is Margaret Whitmore, and I’m 62. I live in a quiet town in the English countryside, where I raised my two children—Edward and Emily. Recently, I asked Edward to move out of the flat he’d been living in with his family so Emily could have it. But what I saw when we walked inside left us speechless. Edward and his wife, Beatrice, didn’t just leave—they wrecked the place. They tore off the wallpaper, ripped up the flooring, took the light fixtures, curtain rails, even the bathtub and toilet. I’m certain this was revenge, and Beatrice was behind it.
Ten years ago, when Edward married Beatrice, I inherited a two-bedroom flat from my aunt. At the time, the newlyweds were expecting their first child, so I let them stay there. “Live here for now,” I told them, “but this isn’t yours forever—just until you can buy your own place.” The flat was old and rundown, untouched for years. Edward and Beatrice, with help from her parents, fixed it up—new windows, wiring, plumbing, furniture. I was happy for them, but I always reminded them: this wasn’t their home.
Years passed. Edward and Beatrice had two children, settled them into school nearby, and grew comfortable—so comfortable, it seemed they forgot my warnings. A decade on, they still hadn’t saved for a mortgage or even tried. Meanwhile, Emily, my youngest at 24, had just finished university and started her first job. She wanted her own space, so I decided it was time to give her the flat.
When I told Edward they had to leave, his face went pale. “You’re kicking us out?” he snapped. Beatrice stayed quiet, but her glare was venomous. “I always said this wasn’t permanent,” I told him firmly. “You’ve had years to save. Rent somewhere or move back with Beatrice’s parents.” I gave them a month, but those weeks were pure torment. Edward shouted that I was ruining their lives; Beatrice accused me of favouritism. I stood my ground, but their hatred cut deep.
Finally, they left. Emily and I went to clean the flat before her move—but it was unrecognisable. Bare walls, torn-up floors, missing fixtures, even the sink and toilet gone. Shaking with anger, I called Edward: “How could you do this to us? It’s heartless!” He sneered, “I won’t hand Emily a fully done-up place! Beatrice and I paid for everything—why should she get it all for free?”
His words crushed me. Emily, standing beside me, was in tears. At 24, she can’t afford to fix this, and my pension barely covers my own needs. The flat’s a ruin, and Edward and Beatrice are probably gloating. I gave them shelter, support—and they repaid me with destruction. This isn’t just spite—it’s a betrayal I’ll never forgive. My daughter’s without a home, and I’ve lost faith in my own son. Now I’m left wondering—where did I go wrong raising him?
**Lesson learnt:** Sometimes, the deepest wounds come from those you least expect.
