**Diary Entry**
Matthew pulled up to the cemetery gates and let out a deep sigh. God, how many times had he meant to come here? How often had he put it off for “later”? When his mother was alive, he never found the time. After her death, it was as if there was no room left for the past at all.
And yet, he’d needed to wake up. To realise that the world he’d so carefully built around himself was just a façade. Not a single word, not a single gesture, had been real. Ironically, he was almost grateful to Natasha—his now ex-wife—for shattering that fragile house of cards. One swift blow, and it all came crashing down! That perfect-looking marriage, those “genuine” friendships… But in truth, it was his wife, his best friend, all of them—knowing, and saying nothing. It wasn’t just a collapse. It was a blow he still hadn’t recovered from.
After the divorce, he went straight back to his hometown. Eight years since he’d buried his mother. Eight years! And not once had he found the time to visit her grave. Only now, when nothing good remained in his life, did he understand one simple truth: his mother had been the only person who would never betray him.
He’d married late—thirty-three to Natasha’s twenty-five. He’d worn her like a trophy. Beautiful, elegant, “polished,” or so he’d thought. Now, all he could remember was her face twisted in rage, the words she’d hurled at him—how she’d hated him their entire short marriage, how every night with him had been agony. He still didn’t understand how he’d been so blind. She’d cried, begged for forgiveness, claimed she’d felt alone… But the moment he said “divorce,” the mask slipped. That was the real her.
Matthew stepped out of the car, grabbing a large bouquet from the back seat. He walked slowly, eyes fixed on the ground. The path must have been overgrown by now. He hadn’t even come when the headstone was placed—arranged it all online, remotely. A perfect metaphor for his life: everything at a distance, nothing real.
But the grave was clean. The headstone too. Fresh flowers, the soil neatly tended. Someone had been looking after it. Probably one of his mother’s old friends. Though… clearly, her own son hadn’t spared the time.
He pushed open the little gate and whispered, “Hello, Mum…”
His throat tightened, his eyes burned. Matthew hadn’t expected to cry. He was a businessman, composed, calculated, a man who kept his emotions in check. Now, he sobbed like a child. He didn’t try to hold back. The tears were freeing, washing away everything tied to Natasha, the betrayal, the pain. As if his mother were really there, stroking his hair and murmuring, “It’s alright, love… It’ll be alright.”
He sat there a long time. Silent. But his mind was talking. Remembering childhood—falling, scraping his knees, his mother dabbing iodine on and saying, “It’ll heal, you won’t even see the scar.” And it always did. With time. The pain growing easier each time. And his mother would always add, “You get used to anything—except betrayal.”
Now, he understood every word. Back then, they’d just been comforting phrases. Turned out, they were wisdom.
Paying the neighbour to keep an eye on the house hadn’t been a problem, but how long could a home stay empty? He smiled, remembering how he’d met her. He’d been in a bad way. And her daughter—Eleanor—had greeted him with such warmth… They’d talked, and one thing led to another. He’d left early the next morning, leaving a note about where to put the keys. Maybe, from her perspective, he’d behaved badly. But he hadn’t made promises. It was mutual. She’d just divorced a controlling husband, told him how hard it had been. They’d both been lonely. So they’d found comfort in each other for a while.
“Excuse me, mister, can you help me?”
Matthew turned sharply. A little girl, maybe seven or eight, stood before him, holding an empty bucket.
“I need to get water for the flowers. Mum and I just planted them, but she’s poorly today. It’s so hot—they’ll die! But the bucket’s too heavy. I can’t carry it alone. Don’t tell Mum I came here by myself, though. If I take tiny bits at a time, she’ll still notice I’ve been gone.”
Matthew smiled. “Of course. Show me where to go.”
The girl chattered the whole way. In five minutes, he learned nearly everything: how her mum hadn’t listened and drank cold water, how she’d got poorly, how they’d come to visit Gran’s grave—she’d passed a year ago—and how Gran would’ve told her off for it. The girl had been in school a whole year and was determined to get top marks—maybe even earn a gold medal someday!
With every word, Matthew felt lighter. Children were miracles. He thought of how he’d wanted a proper family—a wife who loved him, a child waiting at home. Natasha had been like an expensive doll—beautiful, but hollow. Kids had never been part of the picture. “You’d have to be mad to ruin your figure for a screaming lump,” she’d said. Five years together. And now? Not a single warm memory of that marriage.
He set the bucket down, and the girl carefully watered the flowers. Matthew glanced at the headstone—and froze. The photo was of… the neighbour. Eleanor’s mother. This child’s gran.
“Was Margaret Helen your grandmother?”
“Yes! Did you know her? Oh—you must’ve met Gran Ellie!”
Matthew looked back at the girl. “So you… live here with your mum?”
“Well, yeah! I *told* you—Mum doesn’t let me come to the cemetery alone.”
Matthew stared, bewildered. So Eleanor had come back. And she had a daughter. He hadn’t even known… Wait. How old was *Maisy*? Maybe the child came later?
The girl said a quick goodbye and dashed off, reminding him not to tell her mum she’d been alone.
Matthew returned to his mother’s grave, sat, and thought. Something inside him had shifted. Eleanor must be the one looking after the house now. He’d been paying *her*, not her mother. But in the end, who got the money didn’t matter.
Later, he drove to the house. His chest tightened. Everything was just as it had been—as if his mother might step onto the porch any second, wipe her hands on her apron, and hug him. He stayed in the car a long time. She didn’t appear.
But the garden was a surprise—neat, beautiful, flowers planted. Eleanor had taken real care of the place. He’d have to thank her properly.
Inside, the house was clean and cosy, like someone had just stepped out and would be back soon. Matthew sat at the table for a while, then left—he needed to settle things with the neighbour before he could rest.
Maisy answered the door. “Oh, it’s *you*!” she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Mum we met at the cemetery!”
Matthew mimed zipping his lips, and the girl giggled. “Come in!”
“Mum, Uncle Matthew’s here!” she called into the house.
Eleanor appeared in the hallway—then froze, arms folding as if bracing herself.
“It’s… you?”
Matthew smiled. “Hi.”
He glanced around—no husband. No sign of one, either.
“Matthew, I’m sorry… I didn’t tell you about Mum passing. Work’s been scarce, so I’ve been looking after the house myself.”
“I’m sorry, Ellie. And thank you—for the house. Walking in, it’s like Mum just popped out for a minute.”
“Are you staying long?”
“A few days.”
“Will you sell it?”
Matthew shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it. Here—this is for you. A bonus, for good work.” He placed a thick envelope on the table.
“Thanks, Uncle Matthew!” Maisy beamed. “Mum’s wanted a new dress forever, and I *need* a bike!”
Matthew laughed. Ah, that familiar spirit!
That evening, he realised he was ill. A fever spiked. He found his mother’s old thermometer—high temperature. No idea what medicine to take, so he texted the neighbour’s number. Only now, he knew it was Eleanor.
*What do you take for a high fever?*
Ten minutes later, they were at his door.
“God, why’d you even come inside? I *gave* you this!”
“Don’t be daft, you’re ill yourself, why’d *you* come?”
“I’m fine now!”
Eleanor handed him tablets; Maisy made tea.
“You’ll burnMatthew looked at them—really looked—and knew, with sudden clarity, that this was where he belonged.
