Dear Diary,
13July
Mary, what about Brighton? Have you seen the prices? We agreed to tighten our belts this year. The roof on the cottage needs a new tile, the car is overdue for a service, and with the economy so shaky every penny counts. And you keep dreaming of the sea, the sea, I snapped, slamming my calculator onto the kitchen table and rubbing the bridge of my nose, my whole demeanor screaming how weary I was of Marys endless wishfulfilling.
Mary stood by the window, watching the scorching pavement of the culdesac melt under the July heat. She seemed ready to burst with the need for salty air, the sound of waves, a whole week of lying idle without thinking about the annual report, the stews, and the constant pennypinching.
Stephen, we havent been away for three years, she whispered without turning. Im exhausted. My holiday is slipping away. Weve been saving. In that box on the top shelf theres enough for the two of us, modestly. Not a fivestar hotel just a cosy guest house.
Modest isnt an option now, I cut in, pouring myself a lukewarm tea. Tickets have jumped, groceries are practically gold. If we go, well bleed the coffers dry, and then what? Spend the winter nursing a cold? No, Mary. This year our break stays at home. Well head to the cottage, theres a river, fresh air. Isnt that a holiday? And well help my mum her cucumbers are ready, she needs to get them harvested.
Mary exhaled. Arguing with the prudent head of the household was pointless; I always managed to twist things so she felt like a spendthrift, selfish, while I bore the heavy load of family responsibility.
Fine, she gave in, a hollow disappointment bubbling inside her. The cottage is a cottage. Just dont expect me to stand over the stove from dawn till dusk. I want a break.
Good girl, my tone softened instantly. Money will stay safe. We still need to renew the insurance.
The next two weeks sweltered under the citys oppressive heat. Mary went to work, dreaming of an airconditioner that I dismissed as a waste (Open a window and youve got a draught, why waste electricity?). She counted the days till our time off, dreading two weeks at my mother Margarets cottage in the Cotswolds, but it was still better than being trapped in a concrete flat.
Three days before the planned escape, everything turned on its head. While Mary was frying mince pies, trying not to think of the kitchen turning into a furnace, my phone rang.
I answered, and my relaxed expression flipped to alarm.
Yes, Mum what? Blood pressure all over the place? Doctors? I muttered. Right, right, well find the money. Dont worry, health is what matters.
I hung up and looked at Mary, my face shadowed with dread.
Mary, theres trouble. Mum called. Her pressure is spiking, her hearts fluttering, legs shaking. The doctor said she needs immediate treatment not just tablets but a full regimen, rest, and a strict schedule.
Is she being admitted? Mary asked, turning off the stove.
Worse. The doctor recommended a specialised health spa, a cardiology centre somewhere in the Midlands, where the climate isnt too extreme. He said a stroke could follow if she doesnt get the treatment. You know Mum is on her own dad left early. If something happens to her, I wont forgive myself.
I paced the kitchen, nerves frayed.
So the cottage plans are off. We have to send Mum to the spa. I looked up the costs back in spring when the first warnings appeared it isnt cheap. The package, travel, and procedures are all paid.
Marys eyes narrowed.
How much are we talking?
I hesitated. Almost everything we set aside. Plus a bit from my current salary. But its Mum, Mary! You cant put a price on health. Were young, well manage, but she needs help now.
Everything we saved for the holiday and the cottage roof? she pressed, a knot of resentment forming in her throat. Thats about £1,600. Which spa in the Midlands costs that for two weeks?
Its a topclass facility, I snapped. Allinclusive with treatment! Youre cheaphearted for a sick old woman? I didnt expect such callousness. When a person is near death, youre still counting pennies!
Mary bit her lip, the accusation hanging heavy. I loved to weaponise the word callous. Of course she couldnt say no refusing treatment to my mother would be inhuman.
I dont mind, she whispered, then steadied herself. Fine, let her go. Health comes first.
He kissed my forehead, relief flooding his voice. Thank you, love. I knew youd understand. Youre my gold. Tomorrow Ill take the money, drive her to the station, and watch her on the train to the spa near BownessonWindermere. They say the air there works wonders.
The next day I emptied our secret stash. Mary watched, a mix of sorrow and resignation, as a plump envelope slipped into my bag. She stayed behind in the city, alone, on a holiday that consisted of no sea, no cottage, and no spare cash for a café treat.
I returned late, exhausted but satisfied that duty was done.
Sent her off, I sighed, collapsing onto the sofa. Mum fought, cried, didnt want the money. She kept asking why we never take a break. I managed to convince her its all for the best.
Will she call when she gets there? Mary asked.
The signals weak up there, deep in the woods. Shell probably only get a call from reception once a few days. Shes been told to switch her phone off to avoid electromagnetic interference with her heart.
Marys holiday began. She tackled a deep clean, trying to keep her mind occupied. The heat refused to ease; the city seemed to melt. I went to work, came home each evening and talked about how hard it was, how I worried for my mother.
Did she call? Id be asked each night.
Yes, Id answer. Her voice sounds brighter. Shes on the treatments, eating a diet, bored but happy with the pinescented air. Thats what the doctor prescribed.
A week later, Mary was scrolling through her laptop on the balcony, halfheartedly browsing a social feed she rarely visited. She saw friends posting beach photos, cocktails, sunkissed bodies. Everyones at the sea except me, she thought, bitterness creeping in.
Then the algorithm suggested a familiar face. A woman in a widebrimmed hat and oversized sunglasses. Mary froze; the makeup, the tilt of the head, the fuchsia lipstick were unmistakable.
The profile read Lydia Fairweather. Mary frowned she didnt know any Lydia. She clicked.
It turned out to be a public page of my mothers sister, Aunt Lydia, a longtime friend of Margarets from school. Their last post, three hours ago, was geotagged BownessonWindermere, Health Spa.
Mary opened the photo.
In the picture, a turquoise pool and palms framed two women at a table. Tall glasses of coloured cocktails with umbrella sticks and a platter of giant prawns.
One of the women was Lydia. The other
Mary zoomed in. The second woman wore a leopardprint bikini and a sheer sarong, laughing with her head thrown back. Around her neck dangled a familiar gold chain with a hefty pendant the one Stephen and I gave her for her birthday last year.
It was Margaret.
Marys hands trembled. She scrolled further: Were on the inflatable banana! Feeling great! a shot of Margaret perched on a bright yellow inflatable, waving from the sea. Then another: Evening promenade, live music, barbecued skewers. Margaret in a flirty dress dancing with a gentleman. And a recent one: Checked in! Luxury suite, sea view! Thanks to the kids for the gift! the caption read Thanks, dear children.
The realization hit hard. My mother had been enjoying a seaside resort while we scrimped at home, all paid for with the money Mary thought was earmarked for our break.
Mary sat stunned for five minutes, replaying my words: No money, Youre wasteful, Mums health is critical, The signal is bad. She felt a foolish, naïve woman shed been for far too long.
She snapped screenshots, saved them, then stood, poured herself a glass of water, the clink of the glass echoing her rising fury. The cold, calculated anger began to replace the hurt.
Stephen would be back in an hour. Mary decided not to explode at the door; that would be too easy. She prepared dinner, set the table, and waited for me to return.
When I walked in, shoes off, I muttered, What a day, the office AC broke, we almost boiled in the heat. Anything to eat?
Of course, I replied, sliding plates onto the table.
As we ate, I chatted about a supplier issue while Mary nodded, adding garnish here and there. Then she asked, And Mum? Did she call today?
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth, then continued chewing.
She called briefly this afternoon. The connection is terrible, cuts out all the time. She says the treatments are heavy, shes tired, the doctor has put her on bed rest, mostly reading. She misses us.
Poor thing, Mary murmured, gripping a napkin so hard her knuckles whitened. Shes in the middle of nowhere. Hows the weather up there? Rain?
Yes, grey and cool. They said heat would be bad for her blood pressure. So the cold is ideal.
Right, I said, trying to sound indifferent. Maybe we should visit her for the weekend, bring groceries? Its only a fivehour drive.
I felt my throat tighten. You cant, love. That spas a closed facility, they ban visitors. Its practically a quarantine zone. The doctor forbade any visits she needs peace, otherwise her pressure will spike again.
Youre being ridiculous, Mary said, shaking her head. Fine then. I was going to bake her a cake.
She walked over to the laptop on the side table. By the way, Stephen, look at this. I found a health spa online, great reviews. Maybe we could book it for next year?
I slumped into the chair, eyes on the screen. At first I just stared, then recognition flooded me. The same leopardprint bikini, the same hat, my mothers golden chain. My mother, smiling with a cocktail in hand at a seaside resort, exactly the pictures Mary had just shown me.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the hum of the fridge. My heart pounded.
What what is this? I croaked.
Its a spa, Bowness Bliss, with a pool and palms, Mary said, flipping to the next photo of my mother on the inflatable banana. They call it a therapeutic water ride. Heres a dance night, a dinner with brandy. And theres a picture of her in a luxury suite with a sea view.
My breath hitched. You youre saying my mum, who should be in a quiet inland clinic, is actually on holiday at a beach resort, funded by the money we set aside for us?
Yes, Mary replied, her voice steady. Explain to me how we stay in this sweltering city, eating boiled pasta and scraping the last of the toilet roll, while your dying mum enjoys cocktails on a sunny deck, paid for with the very £1,600 we saved for a modest cottage break.
I staggered back, words fumbling. She was really ill! The doctor said sea air was essential! I knew youd object, so I pretended we couldnt afford it. I needed to help her before it was too late. I I used the money because I thought I was doing the right thing.
You called it saving money, Mary snapped. You forbade me to buy a ticket, said there was no cash, then secretly bought a holiday for Mum at a seaside resort. Thats theft, Stephen. Not just of money, but of trust.
I didnt steal, I protested. It was my mother. I owe her.
And what do I owe you? Mary asked, stepping closer. Lies? A smile while you hid the truth? Pretending you were the victim of a cruel fate?
I clenched my fists. I was trying to keep us afloat. My salary goes to the car, my hobbies, the little rainyday fund that you now see has vanished. We were supposed to save together. I took what we both put in.
You took it, Mary replied, voice low. You took it for a mother who could have stayed home and rested. You turned me into a pawn, a resource: cook, clean, work, stay silent, and hand over money. While your mother gets the luxury of a beach, a cocktail, a sunset.
I tried to argue, Ill pay it back. Ill earn more, well be fine.
Youll never pay back trust, Mary said. Respect, honesty, those things you took for granted, cant be bought. I look at you now and I see not a husband but a coward who hides behind his mothers skirt.
She walked to the hallway, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out the suitcase wed packed for Brighton. Where are you going? I asked, panic rising.
Where are you going, Stephen? This is my flat, bought before we married. Youre only listed here temporarily. Pack your things now, because Im done.
Im being thrown out over a spa trip? I shouted. Youre a mercenary, caring more about money than family!
Its not about money, its about family that respects each other, Mary retorted. Ill call the police if you dont leave.
I shouted for a few more minutes, accusing me of being heartless, threatening divorce, pleading for another chance. I watched as she calmly packed my shirts into a bag, her expression unreadable.
Youll regret this, she said as she slammed the door. My mother will enjoy her holiday, and youll be left with nothing but the echo of your lies.
The apartment fell silent. The quiet Id longed for finally arrived, but it was a hollow, cleansing silence.
I sat on the sofa, staring at the empty space where Mary had been. The photo of my mother with that cocktail still glowed on the screen. I deleted the folder of screenshots no need for proof now.
I logged into my bank. A modest emergency stash Id hidden from Mary still remained enough for a ticket.
I clicked on a travel site. Lastminute deals. Turkey. Departing in two days. The hotel was threestar, Id be travelling alone, but at least it would be my sea.
I stepped onto the balcony, inhaled the stale city air, and for the first time that summer I managed a small, genuine smile. Freedom lay ahead, however shaky.
Lesson learned:When you hide truth behind saving and sacrifice anothers happiness for a secret cause, you not only lose moneyyou lose the very foundation of a partnership. Honesty, even when costly, is the only currency that truly preserves trust.
