**Diary Entry – The Last Time**
“I’ll bloody kill her!”
Jonathan hammered his fists against the front door while the neighbours gathered around, trying to reason with him.
“Jon, what the hell are you doing? You’ll be begging her forgiveness tomorrow, same as always! Aren’t you ashamed? Two kids, and Emma’s never given you a single reason to doubt her—yet here you are, making a scene!”
Jon turned towards the garden gate, scowling. “What, you lot here for a show? Piss off, all of you!”
Nobody moved. Mrs. Thompson, their neighbour, stepped forward. “Jon, what’s got into you? There must be a reason.”
“A reason? Emma *is* the reason! I’ve given her everything—my whole heart—and what does she do? Smiles at everyone, shuts herself indoors—who’s she with in there?”
He staggered off the steps and slumped onto the bench. His voice cracked—weak, whining, painfully out of place coming from a burly bloke like him.
Mrs. Thompson softened her tone. “You’re being unfair to your wife, Jon. She’s a good woman. Loyal.”
Jon’s reply was barely a whisper. “She doesn’t love me, Mrs. T. I’m just a farm lad, she’s town-born… always looking down on me.”
“You daft sod. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bigger fool.”
But Jon didn’t hear her. He was already slumped over, asleep. Mrs. Thompson nudged him gently, someone tucked a cap under his head, and he sprawled out on the bench.
“Right. He won’t be moving till he sobers up.”
***
Fifteen years earlier, Jon had left for Manchester to train as a digger operator. Back then, his village was growing—new houses, new promise. Folks joked it’d soon be a proper town. No high-rises, sure, and outdoor loos, but it was the people that counted.
The local council had a small construction team. They’d built homes for workers, but now they wanted a proper community centre—not some dingy wooden shack, but a proper brick building, two floors, with clubs and activities.
They had their own digger, plenty of gear—just no skilled hands. So they picked Jon and Steve from the next hamlet over and sent them off.
Jon and Steve had never got on. Liked the same girls, even scuffled over them. Now, stuck sharing a room in the city, they had no choice but to talk.
Steve smirked on their first night. “Gonna find myself a proper city girl, settle here.”
Jon frowned. “Council’s paying for us—you’d just abandon them?”
Steve laughed. “You’re thicker than pig muck, mate. Everyone does it. What’s there back home?”
Jon just grunted. “Yeah, they’ll be lining up for you.”
Three days later, Jon saw Steve with a girl—and his heart stopped. He fell for Emma the second he saw her.
That evening, he asked, “Who was that?”
“Oh, Em? City girl, lives with her nan. Place’ll be hers soon.”
“You keen on her?”
Steve snorted. “Her? Flat as a board—I like curves.”
Jon punched him. Twice. Steve wiped his nose. “Oh, you’re smitten. Go on, cry when I marry her, then stroll in with other birds while she waits at home like a good little wife.”
Next day, Jon followed them, saw Steve grab Emma’s waist like he owned her—and snapped. He blurted everything to Emma. She stared between them, then said, “Piss off,” and walked away.
He and Steve brawled again. Steve moved rooms. Jon spent days shadowing Emma until she finally stopped.
“How long you gonna stalk me? Fancy taking me to the pictures?”
He took Emma and her nan back to the village. The nan passed years later; by then, they had two sons.
Jon worked himself raw for them—built the best house, finest fence, bought the lads the poshest bikes. Emma worked as a nurse. He worshipped her.
Then, a year ago, Steve slunk back—his city wife had tossed him out. When Jon found out, he stormed home black with rage. Emma frowned as he pulled out a whisky bottle.
“Jon, what’s wrong?”
“Steve’s back.”
“Steve—who?”
“The Steve *you*—”
Emma laughed. “Oh, him! Didn’t last in the city, then?” Then, serious: “Why’s *that* bothering you?”
“If I find out anything—I’ll kill him!”
Emma raised her brows. “*Find out* what, Jon?”
“You’ll see.”
From that day, peace died. Sober Jon apologised: “I’m a fool, Em… sorry.”
She forgave. But every few weeks, he’d drink, and it’d happen again—louder, uglier. Never laid a hand on her, though.
***
Morning. Jon woke in the shed—must’ve fled the midges. Memories flooded back. *Bloody hell. Again.*
He peeked out—empty yard, just past seven. He bolted inside.
Emma sat at the table. The boys, scared and small, on the sofa. A huge suitcase and two bundles in the middle.
“Em… what’s this?”
“Me and the boys are leaving. I won’t live like this anymore. We’re going to Manchester.”
The hangover vanished. “Em, don’t be daft—I had a drink, lost my head—”
“You’ve been losing it for a year! What about *me*? The boys? You humiliate us—and now the other kids laugh at them!”
“Em, I’ll never—”
“You’ve said that before. Every time. Sarah’s *thirteen*—she’s ashamed of you!”
She stood. “Bus is due.”
Jon lunged. “Em, please—”
She didn’t look back. Grabbed the case; the boys took smaller bags. He stood in the empty house, alone.
Then collapsed, sobbing.
Mrs. Thompson found him later, bottles everywhere.
“What’s the date?”
“Thirtieth of July.”
“Jesus—”
“What? You’ve been on a month-long bender! The farm’s a mess—potatoes? Might as well be weeds!”
Jon snapped. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Shut it! Think I won’t thrash sense into you? Or forget how I stung you with nettles as a lad?”
Jon *hadn’t* forgotten. But now he was grown, and she was an old woman.
He stormed outside—she followed, yanked a nettle stalk, and whipped his legs.
“Oi! Mrs. T—what the hell?”
“Teaching you! And I’ll flog your lying tongue next!”
He dodged, but drunk and shaky, she caught him good.
She left, threatening more nettles tomorrow.
An hour later, still stinging, he lit the sauna—only thing that helped as a lad. By evening, scrubbed clean, he returned—cleared bottles, mopped floors, polished dishes. Dawn came; he bathed again, then crashed onto the bed.
Mrs. Thompson woke him.
“Jon—you sober?”
He yanked the blanket up. “Yes!”
She eyed the tidy house. “See that.”
Sighed, sat. “What now?”
Jon blinked. “What d’you mean?”
“Get dressed. We’re going.”
“Where?”
“The clinic. You drove Emma off—now *you* treat the old folks!”
Jon recoiled. “Stop nagging! You think this is easy? I’m *broken*!”
“Then why sit here? Go to them!”
“Piss off, the lot of you!”
The door slammed. Something fluttered from under his pillow—a crumpled paper. Four stick figures holding hands. Scrawled above: *Mum, Dad, Us.* Sarah’s work.
Jon crushed it in his fist, howled into the pillow.
***
Next morning, he took the bus.
He knew the house—visited occasionally. The garden was tended, but the place stood empty. New builds dwarfed it now. They’d planned to fix it up when Sarah went to uni.
From afar, he saw James rolling a toy car, growling. Jon’s chest tightened.
“James, son—”
The boy spotted him, sprinted, crashed into his arms. Jon clung to him, then pulled in Sarah.
“Dad… Mum cries every night.”
Jon’s voice cracked. “No more tears. Where is she?”
“At work. She’ll be back—”
***
Emma hurried home. Boys still adjusting—she didn’t leave them long.
Then—someone in their yard. Her heart lurched. *Jon.*
She froze, wrestling her pulse.
Inside the gate, Jon and Sarah were fixing the fence.
He stoodJon looked up, met her eyes, and whispered, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me.”
