**Diary Entry**
I still remember the day he said ithis voice dripping with disbelief. “So, you think someone actually wants you like this?” My ex-husband could never fathom my happiness.
I stood in the hallway, adjusting the collar of my crisp white blouse, his words ringing behind me.
“Watching those programmes again, are you? Laurel, honestly! Twenty years of the same thingkitchen, telly, kitchen, telly.”
I didnt turn around. On the screen, a French pastry chef demonstrated the perfect macaron technique. My eyes followed his every move, mentally noting the measurements.
“Its not just telly, Edward,” I said softly, still watching. “Theyre masterclasses.”
“Whats the bloody difference?” He stalked into the kitchen, where a tray of freshly baked éclairs cooled on the counter. “Still stuffing yourself with this rubbish. Just look at you, Laurel. You werent like this twenty years ago.”
I knew what he meant. After the children, Id filled out a littlenothing drastic, just no longer the slender girl hed fallen for at university. Now I was a forty-two-year-old woman, mother to two university students who only came home for holidays.
“The kids love my baking,” I said without turning.
“The kids are grown, Laurel. And youre still stuck in this kitchen.”
Hed said it before. But lately, his resentment had sharpened, biting deeper. I felt something shifting, though I couldnt name it.
A week later, I had my answer.
“Ive met someone,” Edward said, sitting across from me at the kitchen table. A plate of apple cake sat between us, untouched.
I set my fork down slowly. My stomach clenched, but my voice stayed eerily calm.
“I see.”
“Shes youngertakes care of herself. Works in marketing at the firm.” He wouldnt meet my eyes. “Laurel, we need to talk.”
“Then talk.”
“I want to be with her.”
I nodded, as if hed just told me the weather forecast.
“And what about me?”
“Youll keep the house. Ill pay child support until they finish uni.” Finally, he looked at me. “Laurel, you have to understandI cant do this anymore. Youre not the woman I married. Youre overweight, boring. Always in the kitchen with these silly little cakes, watching soaps”
“I dont watch soaps,” I interrupted quietly.
“Does it matter? Youre just a frumpy housewife now. Gemmashes ambitious, has plans. She wants to travel, grow”
“And I dont?”
“Laurel, be honest. When was the last time you read anything but a recipe? When was the last time we talked about something other than whats for dinner?”
I stood and walked to the window. Children played outside, their laughter drifting through the glass.
“Alright,” I said without turning. “Go.”
Hed expected tears, a scene, desperate pleas. My calmness threw him.
“Laurel, I never meant to hurt you”
“You already have.” I turned and smiledthe first time in this whole conversation. “But you know what? Maybe this is for the best.”
A month later, he was gone. The kids, home for break, took the divorce in stride. My twenty-year-old son, Oliver, even said, “Mum, honestly? I never got why you two stayed together. Dad was always grumbling, and you… you just put up with it.”
Eighteen-year-old Emily was more emotional. “Mum, are you really going to live alone now? Wont you be lonely?”
Lonely? For the first time in years, I could do what I wanted without someones disapproval hanging over me. Watch my masterclasses, experiment with recipes, read pastry books cover to cover.
The idea came unexpectedly. One evening, scribbling notes from another French chefs tutorial, I realisedI knew more about baking than most professionals. Twenty years of daily practice, thousands of tutorials, hundreds of tested recipes. I had the knowledge, the skill, andmost importantlythe passion.
“A bakery,” I whispered, and the word felt like magic.
Finding the right place took two months. I scoured half of London before spotting ita small ground-floor space in a quiet neighbourhood, with big windows and its own entrance.
“Its a good spot,” the landlord saida man in his fifties with greying hair and sharp grey eyes. “But no ones ever considered it for a bakery. You sure?”
“Absolutely,” I said, already picturing the display cases.
“Im Richard,” he introduced himself. “Richard Whitmore. And you?”
“Laurel Bennett.”
“Pleasure.” He smiled, and I noticed how warm his eyes were. “Listen, if youre serious, I could help with the refit. I know builders, electricians. Well get it done quicklyproperly.”
“Thats kind, but”
“No buts,” he cut in. “Truth is, I like your idea. The area could use a proper bakerynot just chain cafés with frozen pastries. Something homemade.”
I studied him. No hidden motives, just genuine interest.
“Alright,” I said. “Lets try.”
The refit flew by. Richard kept his wordand then some, offering layout suggestions. He checked in often, and gradually, business talk turned personal.
“Always wanted to bake?” he asked once, watching me explain outlet placements to the electrician.
“No,” I admitted. “It was just a hobby. For family, friends. Now…” I hesitated. “Now I can do what I love.”
“Divorce?” he asked gently.
I nodded. “My husband thought baking was a waste of time. Said I was just a fat, boring housewife who did nothing but watch telly and make pies.”
“Telly?” Richard frowned. “Last time I dropped by, you were watching a French dessert tutorial on your tablet.”
I blinked. In twenty years, Edward had never noticed what I watched. This man had picked it up instantly.
“Yes. Masterclasses. Ive studied them for years.”
“So youve got the theory,” he mused. “What about hands-on experience?”
“Twenty years of daily practice,” I smiled. “Though back then, only my family and neighbours got to taste them.”
“Lucky them,” he said, so earnestly that warmth bloomed in my chest.
*Laurels Confections* opened three months after the divorce. Day one: five customers. Day two: ten. By weeks end, a small queue formed outside. I baked cakes, pastries, macaronsrecipes Id studied for years. And every time I saw a customers delight, I knew: Id finally found my place.
Richard visited nearly dailyfirst to “check the fittings,” then just for coffee and new samples. Soon, his visits became the highlight of my days.
“Listen,” he said one evening, finishing a slice of honey cake. “Ive a proposal.”
“Oh?” I wiped my hands on my apron, bracing for business talk.
“Go to the theatre with me.”
I froze. The last time Id gone was a decade agowith Edward, whod spent the second half on his phone.
“Richard, we”
“Were adults,” he said gently. “And I rather think we enjoy each others company. Unless Im mistaken?”
I studied him. A few years older, yet younger at heart. Tall, fit, with kind eyes and an easy smile. And cruciallyhe saw me as more than “some frumpy housewife.”
“Youre not,” I murmured.
We took it slowtheatre, galleries, dinners. Richard showed me a world Id forgotten in years of marriage and motherhood. I introduced him to the artistry of baking, sharing tricks, plans for new recipes.
“Youre remarkable,” he said one night over coffee and pistachio cake at my flat. “So driven, talented, beautiful”
“Richard,” I laughed, “dont flatter me. Ive seen mirrors.”
“And I see you every day,” he said seriously. “I see a woman whos found herself. You glow, Laurel. Thats what makes you beautiful.”
He proposed a year after the bakery opened. Simply, over Sunday breakfastpancakes and homemade jam.
“Laurel, marry me,” he said, spreading raspberry preserves.
I nearly choked on my coffee.
“What?”
“Seems logical,” he smiled. “We love each other. Ive a big flat, youve a thriving business. We could make a proper life.”
“Children?” I asked. “Do you have any?”
“A son. Died in a car crash three years agowith his wife.” His face darkened. “After that, I thought Id never be happy again. Then I met you.”
I covered his hand with mine.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Lets marry.”
We kept the wedding smalljust family, close friends.
