**Diary Entry**
This morning, I watched my son, Oliver, leave for his university entrance exams with a mix of pride and nerves.
“Good luck, love,” I said, forcing a smile. “You’ll do brilliantly.”
He was heading to Exeter for the tests—a short train ride from our home in Bristol. I’d made him a full English breakfast, hoping it would steady him.
“Cheers, Mum. Don’t worry, I’ll manage. Doubt I’ll get a full scholarship, though…” The door clicked shut behind him. My husband, Edward, had already left for work.
Edward and I had been married twenty-two years. Our son, Oliver, had grown into a fine young man—responsible, kind, raised with every advantage. We’d given him holidays in Cornwall, weekends in the Lake District, all the love and stability we could. He’d never given us trouble.
When Oliver was small, Edward and I had scraped by, building our business from nothing. I’d sold handmade crafts at the local market while Edward managed the accounts. Eventually, we found our footing.
“Margaret,” Edward said one evening, “there’s no need for you to keep working. Stay home—take care of the house.”
“But I want to help,” I protested. “Sitting around all day would drive me mad.”
“You know my views,” he replied. “A wife belongs at home. The man provides.”
I’d been raised to believe a woman’s duty was to support her husband. And why argue? We were comfortable now. The mortgage on our terraced house was manageable, the business thriving.
“You’re right,” I conceded. “Oliver starts school soon. The house could use some attention.”
Deep down, I missed making decisions, being part of something. Still, I adjusted—keeping the books for Edward’s business, justifying my economics degree.
One day, he surprised me. “Let’s buy a cottage in the Cotswolds. We’ve got the car—weekends away, fresh air.”
“Edward, you’re reading my mind!” I laughed. And so we did, escaping the city whenever we could.
That morning, after Oliver left, I busied myself baking a Victoria sponge to calm my nerves. Just as I sifted the flour, the front door opened.
“Edward? Why are you home?”
“Aren’t you visiting your mother? You said she was ill.”
“I’m going this afternoon. Just saw Oliver off.”
He hesitated. “Well… perhaps it’s for the best. I’ve come to collect my things. I’m leaving you.”
The room spun. “What? Why?”
“I’ve met someone else. I’ll file for divorce.”
I stammered weak protests as he packed. The air grew thick, suffocating.
“What about Oliver? His exams—don’t do this to him now.”
“Oliver doesn’t need university this year. He won’t get funding, and I won’t pay tuition. Let him work or join the army.”
“He’s your son!”
“It’s decided, Margaret.” The door slammed behind him.
Silence. I clutched the counter, thinking: *I won’t tell Oliver yet. Let him finish his exams.*
Later, I learned Edward had transferred half the flat’s ownership to his mother months ago. They’d planned this. *I trusted him, and he betrayed me.*
Oliver returned that evening, subdued. “I got in… but it’s fee-paying.”
I took a breath. “Love, your father’s left us. He won’t support your studies.”
Oliver called Edward, heard the same cold words. He sat quietly, then said, “Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll switch to part-time studies, get a job. We’ll manage.”
His calm amazed me. *He’ll grieve tonight, but tomorrow—life goes on.*
The next day, Oliver sorted his transfer. He started as a courier; I took a job at a florist’s nearby. After the divorce, Edward paid his share—our business had been joint, after all.
A year passed. Then, unexpectedly, the florist’s owner fell ill. “Margaret,” she said, “I’m selling. Why don’t you take it?”
Oliver encouraged me. I bought the shop.
Three years after Edward left, spring arrived, and with it, a lightness I hadn’t felt in years. One afternoon, a gentleman entered—mid-fifties, kind eyes.
“My daughter’s birthday. Could you recommend flowers?”
I arranged a bouquet. As he left, he held my gaze—warm, steady.
That evening, he reappeared outside the shop with roses. “Forgive the intrusion… but I wanted to give you these.”
I laughed. “How did you know I adore roses?”
“May I walk you home?”
We strolled like old friends. His name was Geoffrey—a cardiologist, widowed. There was an ease between us, as if we’d known each other forever.
For years, I’d been sinking in quicksand. Now, solid ground steadied me.
Four months later, we married quietly. I moved to his country house near a lake in the Peaks. Oliver married soon after; they’re expecting now.
Every day, I thank God—for pulling me from the mire, for this second chance.
**Lesson:** Even when the path crumbles beneath you, keep walking. Solid ground waits ahead.
