**Diary Entry**
Being a widow at thirty-two isn’t just pain—it’s a daily battle where weakness isn’t an option. Especially with a little one in your arms and that endless guilt, heavy as stone, pressing down—guilt towards yourself, towards life, towards your daughter. My husband left abruptly—a car accident one morning, no goodbye. Suddenly, it was just me, tiny Emily, and this suffocating certainty that there’d be no more light, no warmth, no future. Fate, it seemed, was determined to test me to the limit.
Thankfully, I got a job straight out of university—not glamorous, but steady. Motherhood didn’t wreck my career, but it made every achievement twice as hard. I scrimped on myself, rose before dawn, stumbled home by evening, drained. The only thing holding me together was Mum. She was my lifeline—feeding Emily, walking her to school, helping with homework. Without her, I’d have drowned.
Those first years blurred together like a bad dream. The idea of letting another man into my heart? Unthinkable. How could I? My daughter needed a father, and I couldn’t even whisper the word *love* without choking up. Emily grew—school, teenage rebellion. We argued, made up, argued again, but I was always there. I wanted her strong but not hardened. God knows I tried.
When she left for university, I forced myself to step back. No hovering, no suffocating questions. I’d ask about her boyfriend occasionally, but silence usually followed. Fair enough—her life, her choices. Mine, I assumed, were over… Until a colleague, Thomas, invited me to the theatre. We went a few times. Nothing came of it—I was still bound to the past, and he was tangled in memories of his ex-wife. We drifted apart quietly. But for the first time in years, I remembered I was a woman. That I could laugh at jokes, blush at compliments, hold flowers in my hands. No one had given me those in so long.
Years passed. Emily married, had a son—I was a grandmother. Her husband’s a gem, patient and steady, weathering even her sharp edges. That’s love, I suppose. I was proud. Thought my story had reached its quiet end. Then, out of nowhere… it began again.
James appeared at an art exhibition. He—a widower, me—a widow. First, just talk. Then strolls, late-night calls, shared stories. He’d spent half his life abroad as a trade consultant—worldly, sharp, with this quiet depth in his eyes. With him, I felt warm. Safe. No drama, no ache—just a kindred soul.
But the moment I mentioned him, Emily turned to ice. She was livid. Everything about him grated on her—his stubble, his voice, the fact he was two years my junior. Even that he’d already willed his estate to his children—*suspicious*, she called it. She accused me of naivety, of being used. Wouldn’t let me explain, cutting me off, storming out. As if I needed her permission—her *blessing*—to be happy.
Her visits tapered off. Once a month, sometimes with my grandson, sometimes alone. She’d glare like I’d betrayed her. But I’d lived for her, given her *everything*. Even my own happiness—sacrificed on the altar of motherhood.
Twice, I lied—said James and I had ended things. Just to avoid the hurt in her eyes. But I’m tired. Tired of hiding love like it’s something shameful. It *hurts*, this ultimatum—*him or me*. Do grown children truly have the right to snuff out whatever warmth their parents might still find?
Maybe we should all sit down. Talk properly, like adults. But I’m terrified—what if it’s a disaster? What if the fragile thread between us snaps for good? I don’t know what to do. Fight for my right to happiness, or surrender—alone again, just for peace.
So I wait. Stay silent. But inside, I’m screaming: *I’m still a person. And at sixty, I deserve love too.*
