**Diary Entry**
I never wanted to help my daughter, not after what she did. The whole village judged me for it, of course. Here I am in my comfortable house, while she and her children cram into a tiny cottage. And Julia—oh, Julia—only made it worse, bad-mouthing me to anyone who’d listen. *I have to fetch water from the well while she has proper plumbing. I scrape together pennies for firewood, and she’s got central heating.* She knew exactly which ears to whisper into. I held my head high, ignoring the gossip. What was the point in explaining myself?
Years ago, my life was perfect—a loving husband, our precious Julia, a three-bedroom house, comfort. I stayed home, raising our girl, giving her the best schools, hobbies. Everything was as it should be. Then, when she was fifteen, my husband fell ill. I fought for him, spending every last penny. We sold everything but the house, but nothing helped. Three years later, he was gone.
After that, life was a struggle. Julia, used to luxury, rebelled. I took a job at a shop—cashier, cleaner, whatever paid. But it was barely enough. She finished school but refused further education. *No money for university, and I won’t settle for college,* she’d snap. Yet she still loved to party. Clever, too—suddenly sweet as honey when she needed cash. *Why did you even have me if you can’t help?* she’d say. It wore me down—until Jeremy appeared.
At first, I was relieved. Maybe Julia was finally growing up. Jeremy seemed respectable—well-dressed, confident, never cheap. He’d buy expensive groceries, called me *Mum* from the start. Charming, really. For a while, life was good. I’d come home to a clean house, dinner ready—though the two were often out all night. I didn’t pry. Young love, I thought.
Then, six months in, things soured. Julia came home crying; Jeremy grew cold. I stayed out of it—my mistake. One evening, they sat me down. *Mum, we want our own place,* Julia began. *We need money.* I was confused—*I don’t interfere, and I’ve got no savings.* She cut me off. *Sell the house. Split the money fairly.*
I hesitated, but Julia pushed—pleading, then threatening to sell her share. I gave in. They went to meet the buyers—and vanished with the cash. Left me with nothing, a middle-aged woman with nowhere to go.
Renting was impossible on my wages, so I found live-in work—carer for an elderly woman, Margaret. Her son was wealthy, but she refused to leave her home. She was stern, set in her ways. I had to learn everything—baking bread in the hearth, starching linens. Hard, but I managed.
We lived together two years—not friends, but not enemies either. Then one day, Margaret was gone. Her son handled everything—then made me an offer. *I know your story. I’d like you to buy this house for a fair price. Take your time with payments.* Just like that, I had a home again.
I’d barely settled in when Julia showed up—with two toddlers in tow. *Nice place,* she said, like it was obvious. *Where’s my room?* I didn’t mince words. *Your room was in the house you sold. Where’s my half? Why come back now? Let me guess—Jeremy left you too?*
She frowned. *He was a gambler. Cheated me like he did you. I married twice after—both disasters. When the last one threw me out, I thought… well, you’re my mum. You wouldn’t turn me away.*
I didn’t soften. *You’re a grown woman. A mother. Why should I help? You took everything I had. Stay tonight, but tomorrow, you go.*
She stayed two weeks, then used some government voucher to buy a run-down cottage. Moved out, wouldn’t let me see the grandchildren. We lived side by side, miles apart.
The only reconciliation came when disaster struck—Julia’s latest man burned the house down. By sheer luck, she and the children were away. They turned up at my door, and this time, I let them in. Whatever she’d done, she was still my daughter. Those children were all I had left. Some grudges aren’t worth keeping.
As for what comes next—well, only God knows.
