**Diary Entry: A Late Bloom of Happiness**
“Nina, it’s Ilya’s parents’ meeting at six tonight. You’ll have to go—Andrew and I won’t make it in time. And just so you don’t forget, I’ll ring you at five to remind you,” called out my daughter-in-law, Alice, from the hallway while reapplying her lipstick.
“Alice, love, why don’t you go? My hearing isn’t what it used to be. Too many parents talking at once—it just frazzles me,” I replied, stepping out of my room.
“Nina, honestly! Andrew works late, and I’ve got reports due. You’re home all day—why must we go through this every time?” she snapped, irritation sharp in her voice.
“I’m not just sitting about, am I? I clean, shop, make lunch for Ilya… And I *am* sixty-seven,” I pointed out, standing my ground.
“Oh, so now it’s a guilt trip about cooking for your grandson? He’s your *only* one, by the way! Andrew, are you just going to stand there?” Alice was nearly beside herself now.
“Mum, come on. Just go, listen in, and if they ask for money for anything, text me—I’ll transfer it straight away. No need for all this fuss,” Andrew said calmly, ever the peacemaker.
“It’s not that simple. I’ve got plans of my own tonight,” I murmured.
“Fine! If you’d rather tend to your *plans*, then I suppose our son will be the only one without parents there. Thanks for ruining my morning!” Alice stormed out, the door slamming behind her.
“Exactly—parents are supposed to go…” I muttered, retreating to my room.
Andrew lingered in the hallway, straightened his tie in the mirror, grabbed his laptop, and left without another word. “I’m off. Ilya, don’t be late for school.” The door clicked shut.
Silence settled over the flat.
Twelve-year-old Ilya was already dressed for school, stealing a few last minutes on his console, headphones sealing him off from the world—and from the argument he hadn’t even heard.
…I sat on my small sofa, gazing out the window. In five years living in this tiny room, I’d memorised every detail of the view—the corner of the neighbouring house, the birch tree, the rosehip bushes, the slice of the playground. It was all painfully familiar because this was where I spent my evenings and weekends—watching life pass by from behind glass.
The truth was, I’d become little more than a live-in nanny and maid in my son’s home. And yet, once upon a time, my life had been so different…
…I was born into an ordinary family, raised to be polite and unassuming. School, then university, a first job through placement—nothing extraordinary. I didn’t stay in the city where I’d moved for work. Something pulled me back home.
There, I found work at the local factory. That’s where I met Geoffrey, the man I’d marry. A young foreman, sharp and handsome—I caught his eye as easily as he caught mine. We married within months, and soon after, Andrew was born.
I’d dreamed of a daughter too, but fate had other plans. One day, a new technician arrived from London—Veronica, they called her. Sent to streamline production. And streamline she did—both the factory’s machinery and my marriage.
At first, I thought Geoffrey would come back. But he filed for divorce, saying he’d always wanted city life. Veronica had a flat there, connections—a fresh start. He left us, though he never missed a child support payment. He just never cared to be a father.
I never complained. I worked hard, gave Andrew everything, raised him right. The only thing that bothered me? He took after me—too soft, too yielding.
Andrew grew up, went to university. One day, he told me he’d bring home his girlfriend—Alice, his future wife. I wasn’t overjoyed. I’d grown used to our quiet life, and now I’d be alone in our little two-bedroom flat. I prayed she’d be kind, that we’d get along.
When he brought Alice home, I wasn’t impressed. Pretty, yes, but brash and domineering. I’d imagined someone gentler for him. Still, I kept quiet. He was a man now—his choice.
They married, scraped by in a rented flat, saved up, bought their own. Then came Ilya. When he started school, Alice turned her attention to “the housing problem” and finding someone to mind him.
“Andrew, what if we ask your mum?” she’d suggested one evening.
“Ask her what?”
“To sell her flat and ours. We’d get a three-bed. Everyone has their own space, and she can look after Ilya—fetch him from school, take him to clubs, make sure he does his homework. I’ve just been promoted—I can’t risk my career now. She’s retired—what else does she do all day?”
Andrew hesitated. “Suppose we could ask…”
I didn’t like it. “Alice, I don’t want to be in your way. Here, I’m my own woman. There, I’ll be on sufferance.”
“Nina, don’t be ridiculous! You’d be helping your son and grandson. What does it matter where you live?”
“Mum, it’s true. You’d have your own room. It’ll be nicer together,” Andrew added.
After weeks of pressure, I gave in. The flats sold quickly. Alice had already found a three-bed with fresh paint and modern fittings.
“Alice, I’d like to bring some of my things—the good furniture, my sewing machine. Could we hire a van?” I asked as moving day neared.
“Nina, *please*. I don’t have time for this! It’s all outdated anyway. The moving costs would outweigh what it’s worth. And when would you even sew? You’ll be busy with Ilya.”
That’s when I knew—the trap had sprung. The deeds were signed. Weeks later, I moved into their three-bed, my new cage.
…It unfolded just as I’d feared. I tiptoed around, waiting for the bathroom, eating when called. Evenings spent alone in my room. Weekends were worse—friends over, laughter echoing while I faded into the wallpaper. I started walking in the park just to escape.
That’s where I met Peter. A widower, lonely like me, his daughter rarely visiting. At first, we chanced upon each other. Then we exchanged numbers, met on purpose. He became my refuge.
…And tonight, I *did* have plans. Peter’s birthday. I didn’t want Alice’s temper, so I rang him, wished him well, promised to come later. And I did—attended the meeting, then left for his. We drank tea, talked for hours, strolled through the park. I came home near eleven, lighthearted for the first time in years.
Alice pounced the moment I stepped in.
“Nina, have you lost your mind?! Leaving Ilya alone all evening? We’ve been frantic!”
“Why frantic? You could’ve called.”
“We *did*. You didn’t answer.”
“Oh. Sorry, love. Must’ve been my battery.”
“*Sorry?!* That’s all you have to say? Where *were* you?!”
“Alice, why the tone? I’m a grown woman. I don’t ask where *you* go. And Ilya’s old enough to be alone awhile.”
She froze, stunned. Andrew appeared.
“Mum, seriously. What’s going on?”
“No games, son. I meant to tell you—I’m moving in with Peter. We’ve decided to be together.”
Alice scoffed. “Oh, brilliant,” she muttered, storming off.
…The next day, I packed my bag. One last look at that dreary view, a sad smile, and I walked out.
“Have you gone mad?!” Alice shrieked.
“I told you. I’m moving in with someone I love.”
“But who *is* he? He could be a conman! A *psychopath!*” Andrew said.
“Son, when you brought Alice home, I never insulted her. Respect my choice.”
Peter waited downstairs. As I left, Andrew and Alice watched from the window.
“Your mother’s lost it. Who falls in love at her age?!” Alice hissed.
Andrew sighed. “I’d better get ready for work.”
…And so I stayed with Peter. For the first time in years, I was happy. Late, perhaps—but real all the same.
