**Diary Entry—12th April**
I thought Mum was preparing the flat as a wedding gift for us. When the renovations finished, she simply moved out—away from Dad.
I’m only twenty-five. A month ago, I got married and, like any young bride, dreamed of starting afresh—with my husband, in a cosy flat, surrounded by warmth and support. I’d always believed our family was unbreakable. Mum and Dad—the perfect couple, or so I thought. No shouting, no scandals, no betrayals. They’d been together over twenty years, and I grew up certain love like that existed. But as it turns out, I’d been living an illusion.
Right after the wedding, Mum announced she couldn’t stay with Dad anymore. No tears. No explanations. Just: *“I’m leaving.”* I wondered if I’d misheard. *How? Why now?* I tried to understand her, but couldn’t.
My dad’s a quiet, kind man. Never drank, never raised his voice at either of us. Worked his whole life to provide for us, took Mum everywhere, helped around the house—and suddenly… she decided it wasn’t the life she wanted. Said she was tired of being “the maid,” that she finally wanted to “live for herself.”
The worst part? Before the wedding, Mum had been renovating the old flat she’d inherited from Gran. It all seemed like she was preparing it for me and my husband. I truly believed it—picked out paint colours for the kitchen, asked her advice on furniture, dreamed of our little nest. She listened in silence, made no promises, but never objected. I assumed it was her way of surprising us.
Dad thought so too. He’d just nod, smile, and say, *“Soon you’ll have your own place, and we’ll finally catch our breath.”* Everyone was certain it was her gift to us. Everyone but her.
When the renovations finished, Mum packed her things and left. Told Dad she wasn’t coming back and moved into that very flat. No gratitude, no explanations, no second glance. And me? I stood there, frozen, unable to believe it wasn’t some awful dream.
I tried reasoning with her, explaining that my husband and I had nowhere to go, that we’d planned to begin our life there. That I’d always believed she was our rock. But her eyes were cold as ice.
*“I don’t owe you anything,”* she said calmly. *“It’s my flat. I inherited it. I worked, I renovated it, and I’ll live in it. Enough. I’m not a servant anymore. I’m done cooking, cleaning, sacrificing. I just want to live—alone.”*
I wanted to scream. To remind her of every time I’d needed her, how Dad and I had stood by her during her hardest moments. To ask—*what were we all these years? Just an obligation?*
Dad crumpled. He didn’t beg, didn’t stop her. Just watched her go like a man who’d lost his last hope. He couldn’t understand how the woman he’d spent half his life with could walk away—quietly, coldly—without looking back.
Now, my husband and I are staying with his parents. It’s temporary, but I don’t know for how long. We’re flat-hunting, weighing options, but the resentment won’t fade. Not because she kept the flat—but because all this time, she’d been simmering in silence, and we never noticed. Because she no longer sees us as family. Because betrayal, when it comes from the one person you trusted most, leaves a mark that never heals.
Maybe one day I’ll understand her. Maybe I’ll see courage in her choice. But right now? I just feel empty. Mum shattered everything I’d believed since childhood. And no renovation, no flat, could ever mend the crack she’s left between us.
