**Diary Entry**
Honestly, just what I needed…
Emily lived alone. Children never came for her and her husband, Daniel. At first, they hoped, tried, then she considered adoption—Daniel wasn’t too bothered either way. He was content. Maybe Emily overthought it, hesitated too long, and by the time she turned forty, she gave up on the idea. Scared, if I’m honest.
Daniel was an avid hiker—backpacks, tents, campfire songs. He played guitar well, sociable, always up for a pub crawl or weekend trips with mates.
Younger Emily loved that lifestyle. But with age, exhaustion set in. She grew tired of trudging miles every weekend, returning Sunday evening just to shower and drag herself to work on Monday—mosquito bites, windburned face, nails ragged. All she wanted was to sleep in, take a proper shower, not wash in freezing river water or murky ponds. A warm loo, not baring her backside to midges.
Even adventures wear thin when they’re constant. Her back ached, joints throbbed, so she stopped joining him.
Daniel stayed home a few times out of sympathy, but she saw how restless he was. Eventually, she urged him to go without her. He brightened instantly.
*”Why’d you let him go alone? Mark my words, some woman’ll snatch him up. He’d have settled down eventually,”* her friend scolded.
*”If no one stole him in his prime, doubt they will now.”*
*”You’re naive. A man’s always in demand, whatever his age,”* her friend sighed.
*”So what? Should I limp after him in pain just so he doesn’t cheat? If he wants to, he’ll do it at home. Doesn’t need a hike for that. Besides, we’ve got our usual crowd.”*
*”Sure, sure,”* her friend muttered.
Daniel stopped inviting her. They drifted. Fewer shared stories, fewer laughs. Nothing suspicious, though.
Then one evening, he returned distracted, miles away.
*”Where’d you go this time?”* Emily asked, reheating soup.
*”Same route as always. Few newbies joined.”*
*”Photos? Show me?”* She tried to engage him.
*”Like I said—nothing new.”* He stared at his plate.
She pretended to believe him. Knew then—exactly what her friend warned about.
Three days of silence before he spoke.
*”Sorry. I’ve fallen… hard. Never thought it’d happen,”* he mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
*”Just like that?”*
*”She took your spot on a few hikes. Can’t imagine life without her.”*
*”Is she young?”*
He didn’t answer.
*”Right. Plans?”* Emily kept her voice steady. No screaming, no scene.
*”She’s divorcing too. Has a son. Nowhere to live—can’t bring her here. Let’s sell the flat. Split it.”* Finally, he looked up.
*”Why doesn’t she sell hers?”*
*”It’s her husband’s. If you refuse, I’ll… I don’t know.”* He paced, agitated.
The flat was joint-owned. Every fibre rebelled, but after days of thinking, she agreed—on her terms. Hurt how visibly relieved he was.
*”Knew you were daft, but not this daft,”* her friend groaned, tapping her temple.
*”You’re right. But there’s a child. Not his fault. I’m not heartless. What’s the point of a big flat alone?”*
Luckily, her one-bed was bright, same neighbourhood, freshly renovated. She never asked about Daniel’s new place. Why bother?
Alone now. No husband, no kids. She’d adjust.
Then, late one night, the phone rang. Her brother, Tom. He only called once before—when Dad died.
Emily had moved from a small Cornish village to London for uni, married, built a life. To her family, she was *rich*—city job, own flat. They expected lavish gifts. At first, she visited often, but the quiet resentment, the *”must be nice”* glances, even from Mum, wore her down. How to explain a flat wasn’t luxury, just necessity? That city life drained her wallet?
Tom was their parents’ golden child—future caretaker, heir. Emily? An afterthought. She stopped visiting. Then Daniel’s hiking obsession left no time anyway.
Dad died a decade ago. Last time she’d been back.
This call? Nothing good.
*”Tom? What’s wrong?”* She braced for bad news. *”Mum?”*
*”Nah, she’s alive. Just poorly. Barely leaves the house. Can’t manage alone. You should come.”*
*”Can’t right now. Maybe next month?”* Relief—Mum was okay.
*”Thing is…”* He hesitated. *”Lisa left me. Said she’s done playing nurse to Mum, splitting homes. Took the boys. I’m a bloke—can’t run two households. Work’s mad. Mum’s no help, needs care herself.”*
Long story short, he shacked up with a new girlfriend, pregnant. *”Can’t dump Mum on her. Take her in, yeah?”*
*”Who? Mum or the girlfriend?”*
*”Mum. Not bloody Maisie.”*
His voice brightened saying *”Maisie.”* Happy, then.
*”Where’d I put her? I’ve a tiny one-bed now, divorced, remember?”*
*”Cosy, then! Company for you. Mum’s pension too. Look, she hates Maisie. Just fetch her. She’ll rot here alone.”*
No arguing worked. Reluctantly, Emily took unpaid leave, went back. Mum, shrunken, frail, recognised her—no joy, just resignation. Packed nothing; all rags. Tom? Half-drunk, no wonder Lisa fled.
On the train home, Mum stared blankly. Tom waved them off. Never called again.
First night, Emily realised her mistake—should’ve bought a sofa-bed first. Her own sofa was a painstaking pick—bad back, needed proper sleep. Managed one night on the floor, overpaid for same-day delivery. Shoved hers aside, set up Mum’s by the window—she loved watching the street.
Mum wobbled around, worse than Tom claimed. Spilled soup, left taps running, nearly blew up the boiler. Emily cleaned nightly—mopping urine, scraping dried food off carpets. Eventually, she worked from home to supervise. Last six months, Mum stayed bedridden.
Tom skipped the funeral. *”Too busy.”*
Back at work, Emily eyed Mum’s sour-smelling sofa. Couldn’t toss it.
Just settling into routine—another call. Saturday, dawn. She tensed. Tom never rang without hassle.
*”Nothing’s wrong. Can’t I just call?”* he scoffed at her wary greeting.
*”You? Never. What now?”*
He laughed. *”How’re you holding up?”*
*”Back’s shot, joints ache. Why?”*
*”Good!”*
*”Good that I’m in pain?”*
*”Means you’ve got someone to look after you, sis. Remember my eldest, Jake? Aced his A-levels. Teachers say he’s uni material. Village has no colleges. Thinks he’s Einstein—wants to study in London. He’ll live with you. Just a year, till he gets halls.”*
She gaped. Again, no asking—just dumping.
*”One-bed, Tom. How’s that work?”*
*”We grew up four in one room! Scared he’ll tarnish your rep? He’s quiet.”* Another laugh. *”Share your tinned soup, no hassle. Company if you collapse.”*
*”If?”*
*”He’ll call an ambulance, fetch groceries.”*
No winning. He bulldozed on. Glancing at Mum’s sofa—thank God she kept it.
Jake arrived sullen, silent, glued to his laptop.
*”At least he won’t piss on the floor,”* she thought. But a teenager cramped her space. Once, she came home early, dizzy from high blood pressure—found Jake atop *her* sofa, naked with some girl.
The girl dressed, unfazed, left. Jake just shrugged. *”That was Chloe.”*
*”Smoking too?”* She spotted a fag butt.
*”Chloe’s.”*
*”Not Sarah, not Lily—*Chloe.* Unacceptable. I’m contacting your uni about halls.”*
*”Don’t! I’ll sort it.”*
Two days later, he left for halls. No relief—just guilt. How did Tom shrug off dumping people while *she* agonised?
She waited for his angry call. Silence. Finally, she rang him.She exhaled sharply—because honestly, what else could life throw at her now?
