**Diary Entry – Mum, Don’t Marry Him**
*Date*
“Mum, Daniel’s asked me to move in with him,” I said carefully after dinner.
“Where will you live?” Mum paused before asking.
“He’s got his own flat. His dad bought it when he started uni.”
“Aren’t you rushing? You’ve still got a year left. What if you get pregnant?” She turned off the tap, dried her hands, and faced me.
“I get it. You raised me alone—you’re scared I’ll repeat your mistake, that you’ll end up completely on your own…” I couldn’t tell if she was against it or not.
“You’re old enough to make your own choices. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got someone.”
“I suspected. Why haven’t you mentioned him? Never introduced us?” I pressed.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, avoiding my eyes. “I suppose I was afraid. The thing is… he’s younger than me.”
“So? That’s trendy now. That means you don’t mind?” I hugged her excitedly.
At first, I called her every day, visited often. I still had a key but rang the bell now. One evening, a handsome bloke answered—tight t-shirt, muscles on full display.
“Look who’s here, love,” he grinned.
“*Your* love? Hardly,” I muttered, brushing past him.
Mum was cooking, glowing, dressed differently. No more cosy dressing gowns—now it was leggings and a cropped top.
“Max, give us a minute,” she said when he wandered in.
“Got it. Chat away, girls.” His dark eyes sparkled as he left.
“Mum, he’s fifteen years younger. You look great, but… it’s obvious. What could he want?” I whispered.
“You *just* said age gaps are trendy,” she teased.
This wasn’t her. Always reserved, now giggly, starry-eyed—even her clothes were juvenile.
“Is that why you hid him? What next? Please don’t say you’re marrying him.”
“What if I am? You object?”
I opened my mouth, but she cut in.
“We haven’t discussed it yet, but… I’ve never felt like this. *Alive.* So happy!” Her guilty smile stung. “What about you? You and Daniel alright?”
“We’re fine. I should go—he’s probably wondering where I am.”
Walking home, I felt like an intruder in her life.
“Mum’s in love,” I told Daniel, kicking off my shoes.
“So? She’s still young. Unless he’s ancient… or a convict?” He shrugged, “Why the fuss?”
I glared. “Max is practically *your* age. Looks like some Hollywood actor, while she—”
“Love’s blind. Or… jealous much? Fancy him yourself, do you?” He nudged me playfully.
“Shut up! I just don’t get it. Why her, when he could have any girl his age?”
“Maybe he *does* love her. Or—” he feigned shock, “—he’s after her *mansion*?”
“We own *nothing*. A thin gold chain, faux diamond earrings—hardly worth conning her for.”
“The flat, then?”
“But he hasn’t proposed yet. Unless he plans to *murder* her—and me, since I’m on the lease too.”
“Christ, Annie, I’m joking! She’s not daft. She’ll figure it out.”
“*Figure it out*? She’s *obsessed*. That stupid grin, those clothes—it’s *pathetic*.”
“Because *you* can’t see her as a woman. Let her be happy. If it crashes, *then* step in.”
“And wait till he breaks her heart? Easy for *you* to say—she’s not *your* mum.”
“My mum’s *dead*,” he snapped.
“…Sorry.” I swallowed my words. Maybe he was right.
Days passed, but dread gnawed at me. I stalked Max online—gym selfies, party pics, nothing solid. When I visited again, Mum seemed… off.
“You’re not happy to see me?”
“No, it’s— I thought you were Max.” She shivered in an oversized jumper, pale.
“Are you *ill*?”
“I’m *fine*. Tea?”
“Where’s Max?”
“Late shift. He’s a fitness trainer.”
No surprise, there.
She fumbled with the kettle, distracted.
“Mum?”
Her voice wavered. “At his gym… he said I needed a breast lift. And maybe fillers…”
“*He said*— WAKE UP! If a man nitpicks your looks, he doesn’t *love* you. Plastic surgery could *kill* you!”
“*Enough.* You don’t understand—he *sees* me. I’ve *earned* this.”
When Max swaggered in, Mum’s eager smile turned my stomach. I left without letting her see me cry.
“Mum’s getting implants *tomorrow*,” I told Daniel shakily.
“…Bloody hell.”
She didn’t call post-op. A nurse confirmed she was asleep.
“We’re going to *their* flat,” I announced.
Daniel groaned but followed.
No answer. I *kicked* the door.
Max answered in a robe, tousled and smug.
“Ollie’s in *hospital*—what’s *wrong* with you?”
“Move!” I barged past.
A blonde in Mum’s bed smirked. “Joining us? Oh—two-for-one?”
“*Police! NOW!*” I screeched as Daniel wrestled Max.
“Mum’ll *hate* you for this,” Daniel warned after they fled.
“Then I’ll prove it.” I brandished the blonde’s gaudy bra left behind.
At the hospital, Mum wept, feverish. Implants removed—infected.
“I called Max… no answer,” she mumbled.
I bit my tongue.
Later, broken, she still begged for him—until Max sneered she was “too old” and “clingy.”
Then Uncle Geoff (ex-army, widowed, ten years *older*—solid) stepped in. Fixed her taps. Walked her to the park.
And Daniel proposed. At our wedding, I tossed my bouquet straight into Geoff’s hands—he *leapt* like a pro.
When he passed it to Mum, her shy smile said it all.
Women dream of love. Some chase youth, some fantasies. But the *right* man? Often right under their nose.
