**Diary Entry**
*”So, you mean to tell me someone actually wants you like this?”*
Those were the words my ex-husband spat at me, unable to believe I could ever be happy again.
Larissano, *Rosalind*stood in front of the hall mirror, adjusting the collar of her crisp white blouse. Behind her, that familiar voice, dripping with disdain, cut through the air.
“Still watching those ridiculous programmes, are you? Rosalind, for heavens sake! Twenty years of the same thingkitchen, telly, kitchen, telly.”
She didnt turn around. On the screen, a French pastry chef was demonstrating the perfect macaron technique. Rosalind watched intently, mentally noting each measurement.
“Its not just programmes, Edward. Its masterclasses,” she replied quietly, eyes still fixed on the screen.
“Whats the difference?” He stomped into the kitchen, where a fresh batch of éclairs cooled on the counter. “And youve stuffed yourself with this rubbish again. Look at you, Rosalind. Youre not the woman I married twenty years ago.”
She knew what he meant. After the children, shed filled out a littlenothing drastic, but she wasnt the slender girl hed fallen for at university anymore. Now she was a woman of forty-two, mother to two university students who only came home for holidays.
“The children love my baking,” she said, still not facing him.
“The children are grown, Rosalind. And youre still stuck in this kitchen.”
This wasnt the first time hed said it, but lately, his complaints had grown sharper, crueller. She sensed something had changedjust not what.
The answer came a week later.
“Ive met someone else,” Edward announced, sitting across from her at the kitchen table. Between them sat a plate of apple cake he hadnt touched.
Rosalind set her fork down slowly. Her stomach clenched, but her voice remained eerily calm.
“I see.”
“Shes young, takes care of herself. Works in marketing at the firm,” he went on, avoiding her eyes. “Rosalind, we need to talk.”
“Go on.”
“I want to be with her.”
She nodded as if hed just given her the weather forecast.
“And what about me?”
“The flats yours. Ill cover the childrens support until they finish uni,” he finally met her gaze. “Rosalind, you must understandI cant do this anymore. Youre not the woman I married. Youve let yourself go. Always in the kitchen with these silly little cakes, watching your soaps”
“I dont watch soaps,” she interrupted softly.
“What does it matter? Youve become a boring housewife. Charlotteshes ambitious, she wants to travel, build a life”
“And I dont?”
“Be honest with yourself. When was the last time you read anything that wasnt a recipe? When did we last talk about something other than whats for dinner?”
Rosalind stood and walked to the window. Outside, children laughed in the courtyard, their joy drifting through the glass.
“Fine,” she said, still facing away. “Go.”
Edward seemed thrownhed expected tears, hysterics, pleas for him to stay. Her calmness unnerved him.
“Rosalind, I never meant to hurt you”
“You did.” She turned and, for the first time that evening, smiled. “But you know what? Maybe this is for the best.”
A month later, Edward moved out. The children, home for break, took the divorce in stride. Oliver, twenty, even said, “Mum, truthfully, I never understood what kept you two together. Dad was always grumbling, and you you just put up with it.”
Eighteen-year-old Emily was more emotional. “Mum, youll be living alone now. Wont you be lonely?”
Rosalind paused. Lonely? For the first time in years, she could do as she pleased without someones disapproval hanging over her. Watch her masterclasses, experiment with new recipes, read pastry books cover to cover.
The idea came unexpectedly. One evening, as she scribbled notes from another French patisserie tutorial, it struck hershe knew more about baking than most professionals. Twenty years of daily practice, hundreds of recipes perfected. She had the skill, the knowledge, and most of allthe passion.
“A bakery,” she said aloud, and the word felt like magic.
Finding the right place took two months. She scoured half of London before finding ita cosy storefront in a quiet neighbourhood, large windows, separate entrance.
“Its a good space,” said the landlord, a silver-haired man in his fifties with sharp grey eyes. “But no ones ever considered it for a bakery before. Are you certain?”
“Absolutely,” Rosalind replied, already picturing display cases and little tables.
“Im Geoffrey,” he introduced himself. “Geoffrey Hartwell. And you are?”
“Rosalind Whitaker.”
“Pleasure.” He smiled, and she noticed how warm his eyes were. “Tell you whatif youre serious about this, Id be happy to help with renovations. Ive got contactsbuilders, electricians. Get it done quickly and properly.”
“Thats very kind, but”
“No buts,” he cut in. “Truth is, I like your idea. The areas full of chain cafés selling frozen pastries. Thisd be something specialhomemade.”
She studied him. No hidden motives, just genuine interest.
“Alright,” she said. “Lets try it.”
The renovations flew by. Geoffrey kept his word, even offering layout suggestions. He dropped by often to check progress, and their business chats soon turned personal.
“Always wanted to bake?” he asked once, watching her explain to the electrician where to place extra sockets.
“No,” she admitted. “It was just a hobby. I baked for family, friends. But now” She trailed off, searching for words. “Now I can do what I truly love.”
“Divorce?” Geoffrey asked gently.
“Yes. My husband thought baking was a waste of time.” She gave a wry smile. “Said I was a frumpy, dull housewife who did nothing but make pies and watch telly.”
“Telly?” Geoffrey frowned. “I couldve sworn you were watching cooking shows. Last time I popped in, you had a French dessert tutorial on your tablet.”
Rosalind stared at him. In twenty years of marriage, Edward had never once noticed what she watched. This man had picked up on it instantly.
“Theyre masterclasses,” she confirmed. “Ive studied them for years.”
“So youve got the theory down,” Geoffrey nodded approvingly. “And the practical experience?”
“Twenty years of daily practice,” she smiled. “Though until now, only my family and neighbours tasted the results.”
“Lucky them,” he said earnestly, and something warm bloomed in her chest.
*Rosalinds Pastries* opened three months after the divorce. Day one: five customers. Day two: ten. By weeks end, a small queue formed outside. She baked cakes, tarts, macaronsrecipes shed studied for years. And each time she saw a customers delighted face, she knewshed found her place.
Geoffrey visited nearly every day. At first, it was to check the equipment, then just for coffee and to sample new treats. Soon, his visits became the highlight of her day.
“You know,” he said one afternoon, finishing a slice of honey cake, “Ive a proposition.”
“Oh?” She wiped her hands on her apron, bracing for business talk.
“Come to the theatre with me.”
Rosalind froze. The last time shed been was a decade agowith Edward, whod spent the second act on his phone.
“I Geoffrey, we”
“Were adults,” he interjected softly. “And I rather think we enjoy each others company. Unless Im mistaken?”
She studied him. Geoffrey was a few years older but carried himself with vigour. Tall, trim, with kind eyes and an easy smile. Most importantlyhe saw her not as a “frumpy housewife,” but as a woman worth knowing.
“Youre not mistaken,” she murmured.
Their courtship was unhurriedtheatre, galleries, dinners. Geoffrey reintroduced her to a world shed forgotten in years of marriage and motherhood. In return, she shared the wonders of pastry-making, explaining techniques, discussing new recipes.
“Youre remarkable,” he said one evening over coffee and pistachio cake in her flat. “Brilliant, talented, beautiful”
“Geoffrey,” she laughed, “dont humour me. Ive seen myself in the mirror.”
“And I see you every day,” he replied earnestly. “I see a woman whos found herselfand flourished. You glow, Rosalind. Thats what makes you beautiful.”
He proposed a year after the bakery opened. Simply, over Sunday
