**Diary Entry**
Today, my son, James, dropped a bombshell. “Mum, I’m bringing my girlfriend over tonight. I’d love for you to meet her. I’ve wanted this for ages, but the timing never worked out. Her daughter’s at her grandma’s today, so it’s the perfect chance,” he announced in our spacious home in Manchester.
I froze, my chest tightening with unease. James is only twenty-one, and he’s already talking about a girlfriend with a child? He’s never mentioned her before—this news hit me like a bolt from the blue.
It’s been six years since I lost my husband, Edward. His death came suddenly—a blood clot stopped his heart at just forty-three. He’d been full of life; our love had seemed unbreakable. Edward and I had been inseparable since childhood—same school, same dreams, endless laughter. In primary school, he’d tug my plaits; by secondary, he carried my books. At eighteen, we married, unable to imagine life apart.
Ours was a happy marriage. We supported each other, studied, worked, built our cosy home. When James turned thirteen, we dreamed of another child, but fate had other plans. Edward’s death shattered our world. James, then fifteen, withdrew. I gritted my teeth, clung to strength for his sake—worked, raised him, and thought I’d succeeded. He grew up, went to university. I sighed in relief—too soon, it turns out.
“Mum, this is Emily. My girlfriend,” James said, swinging the door open.
Beside him stood a tall woman with long blonde hair. Elegant, in a stylish dress and heels, she smiled. I couldn’t return it. Emily was nearly my age—easily fifteen years older than James. My stomach knotted, but I swallowed it, greeted her politely, and invited her to dinner.
Over the meal, Emily explained—thirty-nine, renting a flat in Manchester, originally from another city. Her five-year-old daughter, Sophie, was in nursery. “I know you’re probably shocked,” she said, eyeing me pointedly. “I’m much older than James. But age is just a number, right? Love doesn’t care. We found each other. You understand, as a woman?” Her smile was coy, but there was a challenge in her gaze.
I nodded, but doubts churned inside. After she left, James stayed back. “Mum, you mean everything to me. Please try to understand. Yes, Emily’s older, but we love each other. This isn’t just a fling—it’s serious. And Sophie, her daughter—she’s lovely. Mum… could they stay with us? Emily doesn’t have a place, and our house is big. If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll understand.”
I looked at him, my heart splitting. I wanted to warn him, protect him—but the hope in his eyes undid me. “Stay,” I whispered. “Just be happy, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Mum! They’ll move in tomorrow! You’re the best!” He hugged me, then dashed off to call Emily.
Alone, I rang my friend Claire. She listened, then said, “Liz, this is fishy. Love’s complicated, sure—but think. This woman has a child, no home, and your boy’s a young lad with a big house. Convenient, isn’t it? Twenty years between them—could she just be settling? Be careful, or you’ll wreck things with James forever.”
I chewed it over. I’d watch Emily, tread carefully.
The next day, Emily and Sophie arrived. Sophie was sweet—shy at first, then proudly showing me her dolls. I smiled despite myself, but unease lingered.
That evening, after putting Sophie to bed, we had tea. I watched James hug Emily, a pang of jealousy striking. Emily’s eyes gleamed—victory. “Your son’s mine now, and you can’t stop it.” I shoved the thought aside, but it crept back like a shadow.
Alone later, I wondered—could Emily truly love him? Maybe it’ll work? But doubt gnawed. That night, I dreamed of Edward—young, smiling, handing me daisies, my favourite. I reached for him—he vanished. I woke in tears at 3 a.m., arms still outstretched, calling his name.
Then it hit me. I can’t interfere. James is grown—his choices, his mistakes. If he’s wrong, he’ll learn. I dried my tears, whispered, “It’ll be fine. It has to be.”
But deep down, I feared his choice might break us apart.
