**Diary Entry – 12th March, 2024**
Mum screamed, “You’ve betrayed me!” and Dad just vanished.
Emily was deep in sleep when the phone shattered the silence. She grabbed the receiver, her heart already pounding in her chest.
“Emily!” Her mother’s voice trembled with desperation. “Come home! Now!”
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Emily was fully awake now, trying to steady her nerves. “Did you and Dad have another row? Sort it out yourselves—you’ve been at each other for years!”
“There’s no one left to sort it out with!” her mother shrieked, voice cracking. “Your father’s gone!”
“Mum… has something happened to Dad?” Emily froze, feeling the blood drain from her face.
“Just come! You’ll see for yourself!” her mother snapped. “This isn’t a conversation for the phone!”
“See *what*?” Emily was nearly shouting in confusion.
“Just come!” The line went dead.
Trembling, Emily started packing. She raced to her parents’ home in the outskirts of York, unable to imagine what awaited her.
“Emily! Get over here!” her mother’s voice had rung like a warning bell earlier.
“What now?” Emily mumbled groggily, rubbing her eyes.
“‘What now’? I’m falling apart, and she has the nerve to ask questions!” her mother was nearly sobbing.
“Mum, it’s seven on a Saturday,” Emily tried to sound calm, though dread coiled inside her. “I’ve got plans, the kids, James. Explain properly, or I’m not coming.”
“You won’t come?” Her mother gasped in outrage. “You don’t care about me at all! You don’t care that I’m heartbroken!”
“Mum, you and Dad have been fighting my whole life,” Emily cut in. “I’m tired of being your referee.”
“Your father’s *gone*!” her mother screamed before the dial tone hummed.
“What’s happened?” James grumbled, rolling over in bed.
“Something serious, I think,” Emily whispered, still hearing her mother’s words echo. “I have to go.”
“They’re impossible!” James flared up. “Does your mother not get that you have your own family?”
“James, don’t start. You don’t choose your parents,” Emily sighed. “I need to go. You’ll have to manage the kids alone.”
“Like I haven’t before,” he muttered. “Tell your mum—if she calls like this again, I’ll file for divorce.”
Emily raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously?”
“Of course not,” James smirked. “But she needs scaring. Maybe it’ll sink in.”
“It won’t,” Emily shook her head and began packing.
For as long as Emily could remember, there’d never been peace in her childhood home. Her mother, Margaret Whitmore, was always shouting, while her father, Henry Whitmore, clenched his jaw, lips thinning to a hard line. He seemed indifferent, but Emily knew—inside, he was boiling.
The rows started when Emily was still in school, escalating until they were daily. Margaret’s voice carried like church bells—every neighbour in their terraced house heard. Even the pensioners on the garden benches would tut: “How does he put up with her? Poor bloke.”
No one asked how Emily coped. Outwardly, the family seemed respectable—her father chaired the science department at the local university, earned well; her mother kept house. But “kept house” was generous. Margaret ruled everyone—Henry, Emily, even the cleaner Henry hired hoping it might calm her. Futile.
She still argued, never minding an audience. To Margaret, Emily was part of the furniture—her feelings didn’t matter. The girl dreamed: *I’ll leave and never look back*. And she did. University in York, escape from their village, rare visits—each marred by shouting.
Once, after a tirade, Henry snapped, “What more do you want, Margaret? The moon on a plate?” Margaret froze—he’d *dared* interrupt—then laughed. Silence, briefly.
At Emily’s wedding, Margaret outdid herself. She corrected Henry’s toast, hissed at him, then snatched the mic: “*I’ll* speak—he can’t be trusted with important things!” Guests exchanged looks; Emily burned with shame.
Afterwards, Henry secretly gave Emily a flat in York, warning her never to tell Margaret. She kept the secret, confiding only in James. “Bloody hell,” he’d said. “Hope we won’t have secrets like that?” “We won’t,” Emily smiled. “I take after Dad—can’t stand the drama.”
The memories flooded her as she drove to her parents’. She braced for her mother’s rants, pictured her father’s weary eyes. But reality was worse.
Margaret wrenched the door open, wailing: “I gave him everything—my youth, my life! And this is his thanks!”
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Emily gripped her shoulders.
“Your father ran off last night!” Margaret sobbed.
“Ran off?” The ground tilted beneath Emily.
“Went to bed, vanished by morning! Took his things and left!”
“Have you called him?”
“Of course! He won’t answer! *You* call him—he won’t talk to me!”
Emily dialled. He answered at once, eerily calm. “I know why you’re ringing. I’ve earned the right never to see your mother again. Staying at a mate’s cottage. If you need me, I’m here.”
“Dad, where are you?” Emily asked, sensing Margaret’s glare.
“At the cottage. For now. Keep it between us?”
“Alright,” Emily whispered.
“What did he tell you?” Margaret shrieked. “That traitor!”
“Mum, *enough*! He’s not a traitor—he’s exhausted. Of *you*.”
“Did he say that?”
“No, *I* am.”
Henry never returned. Margaret tracked down the cottage, pounded the door, screamed—no answer. She bombarded his phone; nothing. She even checked for another woman. Finding none, she seethed: “How *dare* he leave me like I’m nothing!”
Finally, Emily snapped: “Mum, he doesn’t want forgiveness. He’s left his salary, not divorced you—he just wants peace. He’s had enough.”
“*He’s* had enough?” Margaret wailed. “*I’m* the one who suffered!”
Then she wept—broken, helpless. For the first time, Emily saw defeat in her eyes.
The end was cruel. Two years later, Henry died. His mate passed on his last words: “Bury me alone.” Margaret laughed bitterly. A year later, she fell ill. Emily nursed her till the end. Days before she went, Margaret whispered, “I had enough… I just never saw it.”
Now, Emily visits the cemetery often. Where her parents lie, it’s finally quiet. Too late for peace.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t ownership. Some people only learn that when it’s gone.
