**Diary Entry**
Antonia Wilson loved two things in this life: herself—unconditionally—and her son, Peter—with a fanatical, almost religious devotion. Peter wasn’t just her son. He was the Sun around which her small, meticulously polished universe revolved. From the cradle, he received only the best—toys the neighbour’s children could only admire in shop windows, clothes “fit for a prince,” and the finest delicacies.
Peter was enrolled in every conceivable class: ballroom dancing (“For posture, darling!”) to karate (“So you can stand your ground!”). To his credit, Peter displayed remarkable consistency—he never stayed in any for longer than a month. School was dull, practice was unthinkable. Far more entertaining was chasing pigeons in the yard, doodling moustaches on posters, and terrifying their tabby cat, Whiskers—who once left his brand-new jeans with a memorable set of scratches. Antonia only sighed. “Well, what can you do? That’s just his spirit!”
Peter grew up—tall, sluggish, with perpetually sleepy eyes and hands unacquainted with calluses. And then a new sacred mission arose for Antonia: shielding her Sun from unworthy intruders—namely, women. Her personal criteria for “worthiness” included: a flat (preferably central London, no roommates), a car (foreign make, no older than three years), and parents (well-off, influential, obviously). Peter, accustomed to his mother knowing best, obediently dismissed them, one after another. “Oh, Peter, her father’s just a civil servant!” or “Honestly, she takes the Underground—that’s so beneath you.” No girl lasted. None were “right.”
Until one evening at the community centre—where Peter wandered in hopes of free snacks—he collided headfirst with Emily. Emily carried a stack of books, which promptly scattered. Peter, struck by a rare impulse, helped gather them. Then he looked into her large, grey eyes—like storm clouds—and something clicked. Emily worked as a librarian. Lived in a modest one-bed flat on the outskirts, inherited from her grandmother. Didn’t own a car. Her parents were schoolteachers from the Midlands. By Antonia’s standards—a disaster. But Emily was soft-spoken, gentle, smelled of old books and vanilla. For the first time, Peter disobeyed. He brought her home.
Antonia received Emily like a general inspecting a spy. A scrutinising once-over, lukewarm tea, questions sharp as an interrogation:
“Own your flat, do you? Hm. Outskirts. Parents? Teachers? Charming. Drive? No? Pity.”
Emily flushed, fidgeted with her napkin, answered quietly and honestly. Peter ate his mother’s cake and stared out the window. Inside Antonia, fury simmered. “This plain little mouse—for my prince? Never.”
But Peter dug in his heels—for the first, perhaps only, time in his life. So Antonia, teeth gritted, “approved.” Not because she surrendered. She was biding her time. Like a spider.
The wedding was modest. Emily moved into Antonia’s flat (where else?), and the torment began. What some might call “adjusting to each other” was, in truth, systematic demolition.
“Emily dear, this soup is… bland. Nothing like mine. Peter adores a hearty broth, not this watery mess.”
“Oh, dust on the sideboard! Peter has allergies, you know. Wipe it daily!” (Emily wiped it morning and evening.)
“Peter, just look at this crease in your shirt! You can’t possibly wear this to work. Take it off—I’ll fix it.”
Emily endured. She loved Peter. Hoped he’d defend her. But Peter had been conditioned—Mum was always right. He stayed silent, sometimes muttering, “Just try harder, Em. She means well.”
Antonia escalated.
“Peter, darling, Emily bought such cheap ham today. Is she skimping on you?”
“Oh, Emily, that jumper swallows you whole. Peter, tell her not to wear it.” (The jumper was new, bought with her own wages.)
Emily cried into her pillow. Peter snapped, “Stop whinging! Mum just wants what’s best! Adjust!”
Then came the breaking point. Returning from work (Emily tutored evenings), she found Antonia pouring her homemade soup down the sink.
“Oh, dear! My mistake—I thought it had spoiled. Never mind, Peter, I’ll make you eggs! Nothing beats my scrambled eggs!”
Emily looked at Peter. He shrugged. “Mum didn’t mean to. Don’t make a scene.”
That was it. Not a scream—a quiet, broken whisper: “Peter, I can’t do this anymore.”
“And?” he replied flatly, inspecting his nails.
A month later, they divorced. Emily left silently, suitcase in hand, heart in pieces. Antonia rejoiced. “Now, darling, we’ll find you someone proper!”
Peter did—or rather, Sophie found him. Vibrant as a parrot, loud, with a bold gleam in her eye. Daughter of a luxury car dealership owner. Owned a penthouse, a sports car, parents who made even Antonia shrink. Sophie didn’t wait for invitations—she stormed in on stilettos, trailing expensive perfume.
Dinner became a battleground.
Antonia (sweetly): “Sophie, this soup’s too spicy. Peter dislikes spice.”
Sophie (mouth full): “I love it! Pete, try it—it’s fire! If you hate it, don’t eat it. Mummy dearest, must you nitpick?”
Peter froze mid-bite. Mummy dearest?
“Sophie, the sideboard’s dusty—”
“Yep! Pete, buy a Roomba. Dad has one—brilliant! Mummy, I’m not your housemaid.”
“Sophie, that shirt doesn’t suit Peter—”
“Rubbish! I picked it—trendy! Right, Pete?” And Pete, dazzled, nodded. “Yeah. Trendy.”
Antonia tried the “ham tactic.”
“Peter, Sophie bought such pricey prosciutto—reckless spending!”
Sophie cut in. “It’s Parma ham, Mummy. Delicacy! Pete, you loved it, yeah?” And Pete—who’d never tasted Parma ham—loved it. Very much.
Peter changed before her eyes. He adored Sophie—her brazenness, her confidence. He argued back. Said “no.” Defended her. Antonia’s power melted like April snow.
She fought desperately. Wept, accused Sophie of gold-digging, faked illnesses. Sophie scoffed. “Heart palpitations? Call private EMS! Leg pain? Here’s a spa brochure—our treat!”
Years passed. After a vicious row—Antonia shrieking “shameless fortune-hunter!”—Sophie delivered an ultimatum, icy calm:
“Antonia, you broke Emily. You won’t break me. Pete—choose. She behaves, or she leaves. I won’t live in a warzone.”
Peter looked at his mother—her twisted, furious face. Then at Sophie—bold, brilliant, his. Soft but firm: “MPeter sighed, took Antonia’s trembling hands in his, and whispered, “Mum, it’s time,” before turning away to sign the papers that would leave her staring out a care home window, forever haunted by the ghost of the quiet girl who might have stayed.
