**Diary Entry**
“So, in that state, you actually found someone who wanted you?” my ex-husband couldnt believe I was happy.
Louisa Parker stood in front of the hallway mirror, adjusting the collar of her crisp white blouse. Behind her, the familiar voice of her husband grated against her ears.
“Those bloody cooking shows again, Louisa? Honestly, how many times can you watch the same thing? Twenty years of the same routinekitchen, telly, kitchen, telly.”
She didnt turn. On the screen, a French pastry chef demonstrated the technique for perfect macarons. Louisa studied his every move, mentally noting the measurements.
“Its not just telly, Richard. Its a masterclass,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Whats the difference?” Richard strode into the kitchen, where a batch of freshly baked éclairs cooled on the counter. “And youve eaten half of these already. Look at yourself, Louisa. Youre not the woman I married twenty years ago.”
Louisa knew what he meant. After having the children, shed put on a bit of weightnothing drastic, but she was no longer the slender girl hed fallen for at university. Now, at forty-two, she was a mother of two university students who only came home for holidays.
“The children love my baking,” she said without turning.
“The children are grown, Louisa. And youre still stuck in this kitchen.”
Hed said it before. But lately, his irritation had sharpened into something cruel. She felt the shift but didnt understand why.
A week later, she found out.
“Ive met someone else,” Richard said, sitting across from her at the kitchen table. Between them sat a plate of apple cake he hadnt touched.
Louisa set down her fork. Her stomach tightened, but her voice stayed steady.
“I see.”
“Shes younger. Takes care of herself. Works in marketing at the firm.” Richard wouldnt meet her eyes. “We need to talk properly.”
“Go on.”
“I want to be with her.”
Louisa nodded as if hed just mentioned the weather forecast.
“And what about me?”
“Youll keep the flat. Ill pay child support until they finish uni.” He finally looked at her. “Louisa, youve changed. Youre overweight, boring. Always baking these silly little cakes, watching your shows”
“I dont watch soaps,” she corrected softly.
“Same difference! Youve become a housewife with no ambition. Emmashes driven. She wants to travel, achieve things”
“And I dont?”
“Be honest with yourself. When was the last time you read anything but a recipe? When did we last talk about something other than dinner?”
Louisa stood and walked to the window. Outside, children played, their laughter drifting through the glass.
“Fine,” she said without turning. “Go.”
Richard had expected tears, a fight. Her calmness threw him.
“Louisa, I never meant to hurt you”
“You already have.” She turned and smiledthe first time all evening. “But you know what? Maybe its for the best.”
A month later, he moved out. The children, home for the holidays, took the news calmly. Twenty-year-old James even said, “Mum, honestly, 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, are you going to be alone now? Wont you be lonely?”
Louisa thought about it. Lonely? For the first time in years, she could do what she wanted without someones disapproval. Watch her shows, experiment with recipes, read baking books.
The idea came unexpectedly. Watching another pastry tutorial, scribbling notes, she realisedshe knew more about baking than most professionals. Twenty years of daily practice, hundreds of recipes, thousands of techniques. She had the skill, the passion.
“A bakery,” she said aloud. The word felt like magic.
Finding the right place took two months. She scoured London before finding ita small ground-floor space in a quiet neighbourhood, with large windows and its own entrance.
“Its a good spot,” said the landlord, a silver-haired man in his fifties with sharp grey eyes. “But no ones ever considered a bakery here. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Louisa said, already picturing display cases and tables.
“Im Edward,” he introduced himself. “Edward Whitmore. And you?”
“Louisa Parker.”
“Pleasure.” He smiled, warmth lighting his eyes. “Tell you whatif youre serious about this, Ill help with the renovation. I know builders, electricians. Well have it done properly.”
“Thats kind, but”
“No buts,” he interrupted. “Frankly, I like your idea. The area needs a proper bakery, not just chain cafés selling frozen pastries. Something homemade, special.”
Louisa studied him. No ulterior motivesjust genuine interest.
“All right,” she said. “Lets try.”
The renovation flew by. Edward kept his word, even suggesting clever layout ideas. He often dropped by, and soon, their talks shifted from business to personal.
“Was baking always your dream?” he asked one day, watching her direct the electrician.
“No,” she admitted. “It was just a hobby. I baked for family, friends. But now” She hesitated. “Now I can do what I love.”
“Divorce?” he asked gently.
“Yes. My husband thought baking was a waste of time. Called me a frumpy housewife who only made cakes and watched telly.”
“Telly?” Edward frowned. “Last time I came, you were watching a French patisserie documentary.”
Louisa stared. In twenty years, Richard had never noticed what she watched. This man had, instantly.
“Yes, masterclasses,” she said. “Ive studied them for years.”
“So youve got the theory,” Edward nodded approvingly. “And the practice?”
“Twenty years of daily baking,” she smiled. “Though only my family and neighbours ever tasted it.”
“Lucky them,” he said, and something warm settled in her chest.
**Louisas Sweet Treats** opened three months after the divorce. On day one, five customers came. By weeks end, a small queue formed outside. Her cakes, pastries, macaronsall made from years of studyingwere a hit.
Edward visited almost daily. First, to check on the plumbing, then just for coffee and new samples. Soon, his visits became the highlight of her day.
“Listen,” he said one evening, finishing a slice of honey cake. “Ive got a proposition.”
“Oh?” She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Come to the theatre with me.”
Louisa froze. The last time shed gone was a decade agowith Richard, whod spent the second half on his phone.
“Edward, were”
“Were adults,” he said gently. “And I think we enjoy each others company. Am I wrong?”
She studied him. Edward was a few years older but carried himself welltall, sharp-eyed, with an easy smile. And crucially, he saw hernot as a “frumpy housewife,” but as a woman.
“Youre not wrong,” she whispered.
Their relationship grew slowly: theatre trips, exhibitions, dinnersEdward showed her the world shed forgotten in years of marriage and motherhood. In return, she introduced him to baking, sharing techniques, discussing new recipes.
“Youre remarkable,” he said one night over coffee and pistachio cake at her flat. “So talented, so determined, so beautiful”
“Edward,” she laughed. “Ive seen a mirror.”
“I see you every day,” he said seriously. “And I see a woman whos found herself. You glow, Lou. Thats what makes you beautiful.”
He proposed a year after the bakery opened. Simply, over Sunday breakfastpancakes with homemade jam.
“Lou, marry me,” he said, spreading raspberry jam.
She nearly choked on her tea.
“What?”
“It makes sense,” he smiled. “We love each other. Ive got space, youve got the bakery. We could build a life.”
“Children?” she asked. “Do you have any?”
“A son. He died in a car crash three years ago, with his mother.” Edwards face darkened. “After that, I thought Id never be happy again. Then I met you.”
Louisa covered his hand with hers.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Lets marry.”
The wedding was smalljust family. James and Emily came from uni, along with Edwards friends and a few regulars from the bakery. Louisa hadnt felt this happy in years.
Six months later, Emily announced her engagement. Her fiancé, Oliver, came from money, and a lavish wedding was planned.
“Mum, will you invite Dad?” Emily asked while drafting the guest list.
Louisa hesitated. Richard was their fatherit would be odd not to invite him. But
