**Diary Entry**
I never thought it would come to this. Max, my little boy, sat curled up on his bed, knees tucked tight to his chest, refusing to look at me.
“I don’t want to go to Dad’s,” he mumbled into his sleeves. “Aunt Laura says Dad doesn’t love me anymore.”
The room was perfectly ordinary—crumpled pyjamas with dinosaurs, a backpack of toys in the corner, his coat draped over the chair. Everything warm and familiar. Except for the way he hunched there, so small, so still.
He was supposed to leave today, but suddenly he begged to stay. If I really thought about it, he’d been quieter after his visits lately. I tried to coax him, but then he dropped it—Laura, my ex-husband Oliver’s new girlfriend, had been cruel to him.
“Max,” I said softly, sinking beside him. “Tell me what happened.”
He stayed silent. Then, finally, he lifted his head just enough to peer up at me. For a six-year-old, his eyes carried a weight no child should know—something weary, distrusting.
“I was just playing…” His voice wobbled. “She got mad because my robot was loud. The one you got me. She took it and said… Dad’s gonna have a new baby soon, and he’ll forget about me. That I’m in the way. And if I told anyone…” He sucked in a ragged breath. “Nobody would believe me. Because Aunt Laura’s a grown-up. They’d think I was lying.”
Each word scraped at me. Anger, fear, guilt—they all twisted together until my throat burned. Max turned away, picking at the bedsheet. I reached for his hand.
“I believe you. Know why? Because you don’t lie. Well, except about sneaking biscuits.”
He huffed, but there was no smile.
“Dad chose her instead of me.”
“Dad just doesn’t know the truth yet,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. “But he’ll understand. I promise.”
Once Max was asleep, I made tea, replaying the first time I met Laura—if you could call it a meeting.
A year ago, a message popped up from an anonymous profile: *”Good afternoon! No need for introductions—just know I mean well. If you’re curious where your husband spends his evenings, meet me Monday at seven at The Willow, table by the window.”*
Back then, I wondered who the “well-meaning” stranger was. Now, I knew: Laura. A saint with a smirk.
That night, I saw everything—Oliver across from her, their fingers tangled, the kiss on her cheek. Later, he stammered excuses: a business meeting, an old friend, “nothing serious.” But I wasn’t forgiving infidelity.
We split. Max stayed. And Laura—she became Oliver’s wife.
She played the part perfectly: sweet as syrup, endlessly patient, doting on Max with gifts—puzzles, dinosaur kits, a giant stuffed turtle. But those weren’t for him. They were for Oliver. Her kindness was a performance, her smile bait. And now, with a baby on the way, the act had slipped.
She’d miscalculated one thing: I could let Oliver go. But I wouldn’t let her take my son’s happiness.
The fridge held tomorrow’s to-do list, but I had one more task tonight. I stared at my phone before dialling. Oliver answered, voice edged with irritation. Late for him.
“What’s so urgent?”
“Max. He doesn’t want to visit you anymore. Says Laura’s been telling him you don’t love him. That he’s unwanted.”
Silence. Then, sharp and defensive: “You can’t honestly expect me to believe this rubbish. You’re just stirring trouble again!”
“I’m his *mother*. I listen. You clearly don’t.”
“You’re using him!” he snapped. “Trying to cut me out. It’s sick, Emily. Absolutely sick.”
I clenched my jaw. This was Oliver—not a terrible father, but forever stuck in some teenage drama where everyone was out to get him.
“She tells him he’s nothing to you. That’s acceptable?”
“She’d *never*—”
“Oh, she would. You just don’t see it. To you, she’s all doe-eyed smiles. But alone? ‘He chose *me*.’ ‘You couldn’t keep him.’ ‘Single mum with baggage.’ I’ve heard it all.”
A memory surfaced—Laura at the mall, sizing me up while Oliver was gone. *“No wonder he moved on. You dress like a moth.”* Back then, it seemed petty. I should’ve known.
Oliver kept ranting, but I barely heard. The call died mid-sentence. A mercy.
I wouldn’t let Max lose his dad. But I wouldn’t let Oliver—or Laura—hurt him either.
The next morning, I texted: *“From now on, visits are neutral ground. Without her.”* He read it. No reply.
Two days later, he asked to take Max to the cinema.
I hesitated but agreed.
Oliver arrived with chocolate for me and jelly sweets for Max. His smile was stiff, like he was smoothing over cracks. I stayed cold but civil—for Max’s sake.
“Just the cinema, yeah?” Oliver said as Max fetched his coat. “No Laura. Just me and him.”
I nodded. “Home by seven.”
Max glanced back at the door. I forced a smile.
Halfway to the cinema, Oliver’s mate Greg called. Needed help moving a sofa. Promised pizza and beer.
Oliver detoured.
“Dad, what about the film?”
“Quick stop at ours first. Don’t tell Mum, alright?”
Max sighed but said nothing.
Laura greeted them with that saccharine grin. “Maxy! Missed you! Want juice? Chocolate biscuits?”
Her sweetness clung like syrup. Max trailed to the kitchen, silent. Oliver left—but paused on the stairs. Something prickled. He turned back, key in hand.
The door creaked open.
Laura’s voice, now ice: *“Sit. And stop whining. Dad pities you. He’ll have a real son soon. You’ll be stuck with your *mum*.”*
Oliver stepped inside. Max sat frozen, no juice, no biscuits.
Laura spun, sugar-coating back on. “We’re *playing*! Maxy’s such a good actor!”
Oliver didn’t speak. Just gripped Max’s shoulder. *“Let’s go.”*
Max looked up—eyes wet, stunned. Like he’d forgotten what hope felt like.
Laura chirped about taking biscuits for the road. Oliver ignored her.
He didn’t divorce her. But after that, visits changed—cinemas, cafés, Nana’s. No Laura. He never apologised, but the accusations stopped.
I never learned what happened that day. But I felt it—something shifting, settling.
Once, at nursery, I ran into Oliver. He carried a bag with a plush bunny poking out. We nodded at each other.
Maybe we weren’t a team anymore. But we both loved Max.
And that, finally, was enough.
