**Diary Entry – 14th May**
I never thought I’d hear those words from my little boy.
*”I don’t want to go to Dad’s… Auntie Lydia said Dad doesn’t love me anymore.”* Oliver curled up on his bed, hugging his knees tight, his voice small and shaky.
I stopped dead. Everything in his room was normal—the wrinkled pyjamas with rockets, his backpack stuffed with toys in the corner, his jacket slung over the chair. All so familiar, so *home*. But my son wasn’t racing around like he usually did. He was folded into himself, quiet, as if trying to disappear.
He was supposed to go to his father’s today, but he begged to stay. Lately, he’d been less excited about these weekends. I tried to coax him, but then he dropped the bombshell: Lydia, Thomas’s new girlfriend, had been cruel to him.
*”Ollie…”* I knelt beside him, keeping my voice soft. *”Tell me what happened, love.”*
He stayed silent at first. Then he lifted his head just enough to look at me—not like a five-year-old, but with this weary, sad gaze, as if he’d aged ten years overnight.
*”I was just playing… She got mad because my toy was loud. That robot. Remember? She took it and said… they’re going to have another baby, and Dad will forget about me. That I’m… in the way.”* His breath hitched. *”And if I tell anyone, they’ll think I’m lying. Because Auntie Lydia will say it’s not true. And she’s a grown-up. They’ll believe her.”*
My stomach twisted. Anger, guilt, fear—all of it bubbled up inside me at once. The air felt thick, suffocating. Oliver turned away, picking at the bedsheet. I reached for his hand.
*”I believe you. You know why? Because you never lie. Well… except when you sneak sweets from the cupboard.”*
He let out a weak sniff—no real laugh, just a sad little sound.
*”Dad chose her instead of me…”*
*”He just doesn’t know yet,”* I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. *”But he’ll understand. I promise.”*
Later, after tucking him in, I sat with my tea, thoughts spinning. The first time I met Lydia—if you could even call it *meeting*—was a year ago. Some anonymous message slid into my DMs: *”Good evening. No introductions needed, but thought you’d want to know where your husband spends his nights. Monday, 7 PM. The Oak & Vine, table by the window.”*
Back then, I’d wondered who the “well-wisher” really was. Now, I knew: Lydia. A well-wisher with venom in her smile.
That night, I saw everything. Thomas, across from her. Their fingers tangled together. The kiss on the cheek. Later, he stammered excuses—*”just a business meeting,”* *”an old friend,”* then finally, *”nothing serious.”*
But infidelity isn’t something I forgive.
We split. Oliver stayed. And so did Lydia, who became Thomas’s wife soon enough.
She played the part perfectly—sweet, doting, *so* good with kids. Gifts for Oliver every holiday: puzzles, dinosaur sets, once, a giant stuffed tortoise. But those presents weren’t for him. They were for Thomas. Her kindness was a weapon, her smile a trap. And now that she was pregnant, the mask slipped.
She made one mistake, though: I might’ve let Thomas go. But I won’t let her hurt my son.
I called him that night. Thomas answered, irritated. *”Something urgent?”*
*”Yes. We need to talk. About Oliver.”*
His voice sharpened. *”What’s wrong? Is he sick?”*
*”No. He doesn’t want to see you anymore. Says Lydia’s been telling him awful things—that you don’t love him, that you’ll replace him.”*
Silence. Then, defensively: *”Emily, come on. You really expect me to believe this nonsense? You’re just stirring trouble—again.”*
*”I’m his mother. I listen. You clearly don’t.”*
*”You’re using him!”* he snapped. *”You want him to cut us off. To guilt-trip me. It’s sick.”*
I bit back my anger. This was always his flaw—paranoia, this idea everyone was out to get him. He could be tender with Oliver, but where Lydia was concerned? Blind.
*”Lydia’s poisoning him against you,”* I said flatly. *”Is that fine by you?”*
*”She’d never—”*
*”She *has*. To me, too. Sweet as pie in front of you, but alone? ‘He picked *me*.’ ‘You couldn’t keep him.’ ‘Single mum with baggage.’”*
He scoffed. *”Lydia’s not like that.”*
*”Open your eyes, Thomas.”*
The call ended abruptly. Fine.
The next morning, I texted: *”No more visits at your place. Neutral ground only. And *without* her.”* He read it. Didn’t reply.
Two days later, he asked to take Oliver to the cinema.
I hesitated but agreed.
Thomas showed up with chocolate for me, gummy bears for Oliver. That strained smile of his—like he was smoothing over cracks. I stayed cool, for Oliver’s sake.
*”Just the cinema, yeah?”* Thomas said as Oliver fetched his jacket. *”No Lydia. Just me and him.”*
I nodded. *”Home by seven.”*
At the door, Oliver glanced back. I forced a smile.
They never made it to the cinema.
Thomas got a call—his mate, Greg, needed help moving a sofa. Promised pizza and beer. So they detoured.
*”Dad, what about the film?”*
*”Quick stop first. Half an hour. Don’t tell Mum, alright?”*
Oliver sighed, resigned.
When they walked in, Lydia was all sugary smiles. *”Ollie! Missed you! Want juice? Chocolate biscuits?”*
Oliver didn’t answer. Thomas left—then hesitated on the stairs. Something nagged at him. He went back.
The door creaked open.
Lydia’s voice, now icy: *”Sit there and *stay quiet*. You’re nobody here. Dad pities you. Soon, he’ll have a *real* son—not some whiny brat.”*
Thomas froze. His face went grey.
Lydia spun, spotting him. Instantly, her tone flipped. *”Oh! We’re *playing*! Aren’t we, Ollie? The wicked stepmother and the prince!”*
Thomas didn’t speak. Just gripped Oliver’s shoulder. *”We’re leaving.”*
Oliver’s eyes—wide, wet—said everything.
Lydia kept chirping, offering biscuits *to go*. Thomas ignored her.
He didn’t leave her, but after that? No more Lydia around Oliver. Cinema trips, cafés, Grandma’s—just them. No apologies to me, no more accusations.
I never found out what happened that day. But I felt the shift.
Last week, at nursery pickup, I ran into Thomas. He carried a bag with a plush hare sticking out. We nodded at each other—no words, just a silent truce.
We’re not a team anymore. But we’re still *his* parents. And that’s enough.
