**Diary Entry**
I’d given up on love. Then fate handed me a second chance…
Richard walked into the flat late that evening. His face was weary, eyes clouded with some inner battle. He kicked off his shoes in silence, shuffled to the kitchen, and sank into a chair.
“Rich, love, are you hungry?” I fussed, hovering over him. “I roasted a duck, just how you like it—with apples. You seem off tonight.”
He looked up at me, no trace of his usual easy smile.
“Emma,” he said quietly, “we need to talk. I can’t keep splitting my time like this. When do we stop pretending? I have my own place.”
A cold weight settled in my chest. The moment I’d dodged for years had finally caught up.
“Alright,” I whispered. “But first, you should meet my children.”
We arranged to meet at a café. James and Oliver sat stiffly across from me, Sophie beside me, fingers knotted under the table. When Richard walked in, my sons went utterly still. Their jaws practically hit the floor before their faces twisted in disgust. It took me a second to understand—then it clicked.
“Are you joking, Mum?!” James exploded first. “Dating at your age? Bloody embarrassing.”
“We thought you had more sense,” Oliver sneered. “Women your age should be knitting, not chasing blokes.”
“I’m forty-four,” I muttered.
“Then act like it. We’ll rent our own place. No way we’re living under the same roof as your little fling.”
Sophie just turned away. Didn’t speak to me for a month.
I didn’t cry. I just sat in the dark later, replaying my life like a film reel.
Back when I was a straight-A student. Quiet, sensible girl, doting parents who dreamed of Oxford for me. Then, at seventeen, I fell for Michael.
He was twenty-four. Tall, rough voice, hands that could fix anything. My father threw him out the instant he came to ask for my hand. I didn’t listen. Two months later, I followed him to Manchester.
At first, it was like a fairytale. James came first—Mum and Dad softened, even bought us a flat. Then Oliver arrived, and they gifted us a three-bedroom house. That’s when the fairytale curdled.
Michael’s family were drunks. His brother mooched, his parents were always out partying. Soon, Michael joined them—disappearing for days, coming home reeking of lager. Work? Please. No employer would keep a man who vanished for benders.
I carried everything. Two jobs, night classes, scrubbing floors at midnight. Too proud to beg my parents for help. And Michael? Sprawled on the sofa demanding another pint.
The final straw came when I returned from the midwife—pregnant with Sophie—to hear him grunt, “No cream for my coffee? Go fetch some, then.”
I filed for divorce that week. Called him a cab, paid the fare myself. He laughed like it was a joke. Big mistake.
He never came back. New locks. Mrs. Higgins next door kept watch in case he kicked off. The divorce was quick. He never even knew about Sophie.
Three months later, he died. A fire at his parents’ cottage—stove left on. His brother survived. Michael didn’t. I felt guilty, sure. But I wasn’t his keeper.
Sophie arrived. Three kids. Work. Endless laundry. Three-hour sleep stints.
I forgot what it was to feel beautiful. To be wanted. I became a machine—paychecks, packed lunches, parent-teacher meetings. The widow’s pension went straight into savings for them.
Love? I crossed it out. Didn’t deserve it.
Then came that rain-lashed evening. A colleague’s birthday, the bus never showing. A car slowing beside me.
“Need a lift?”
Just an ordinary bloke. Warm smile, kind eyes. Richard, his name was. Turned out we lived streets apart. Soon, he waited for me every morning, drove me to work, brought me coffee in the car. Said I was lovely.
I’d forgotten what compliments felt like. But he made it easy. He’d divorced after catching his wife cheating. No kids.
Then—he asked me to move in. And I… froze.
The children cut me off. Called me selfish, said they’d rent elsewhere.
It gutted me. Until something inside me snapped.
“Fine,” I told my sons. “We’ll sell the house, split it three ways. You’re grown. And I? I’m not staying lonely just to suit you.”
I moved in with Richard.
Then—a miracle. I got pregnant again. The doctor warned against it. I refused to listen.
Richard never left my side. Rushed me to appointments, held my hand through every scan. He was a father the moment he heard that heartbeat.
The children? Silence. Not a call, not a text.
Until the day we brought Charlotte home. They all turned up—flowers, balloons, apologies spilling out.
Now, laughter fills the house again. Little Charlie toddles about, her siblings hovering close. Sophie visits weekly, helps with nappies. James brings his girlfriend round. Oliver hosts Sunday roasts.
Sometimes, I catch Richard’s eye across the room—and my heart stutters.
I could’ve said no. Could’ve stayed alone. But I chose life.
And now I know: it’s never too late. Not when love finds you properly.
