**Diary Entry**
Stanley Andrews, or Stan to his friends and colleagues, had recently been promoted to department manager at a prominent firm in Manchester. The promotion was well-earned—he was a hard worker, quiet, always punctual. He never craved the spotlight, yet he moved forward steadily. The congratulations at work were understated; Stan gave a slight smile, thanked everyone, and assured them he’d do his best to prove himself worthy.
No one was prouder than his mother, Margaret Williams. She was the one who’d once dragged him to countless doctors, hired tutors, scraped together money from her pension to buy him winter coats and put aside savings for his university. She’d also insisted he treat his colleagues to homemade food—pies, salads, finger foods. At first, Stan shrugged it off, but in the end, he agreed. He couldn’t bear to disappoint her.
On the day of the celebration, he popped by his mother’s to collect the food. She had an appointment with her cardiologist, so she’d left everything packed and ready in the fridge. Since time was tight, Stan asked a new colleague, Emily, to come along and help carry it. She agreed eagerly.
Emily, blonde and blue-eyed, was the kind of woman people couldn’t help but notice. Around the office, whispers followed her—how she always flirted with Stan, smiling, asking for lifts…
They entered his mum’s flat—small but spotless, warm, and welcoming. Stan opened the fridge and started loading containers. Emily perched on a stool, glancing around.
“Your mum’s place is so cosy… really homely. Oh, who’s this?”
A little black dog trotted in, growling at the stranger.
“That’s Buster,” Stan said, scooping him up. “Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”
“Buster? What a name,” Emily grimaced. “Keep him away, will you? He might ruin my tights.”
Stan fell quiet. The distaste on her face stung. But that wasn’t all—a plump black cat sauntered in, rubbing against his legs.
“And this is Duke,” he murmured, pulling a piece of boiled fish from the fridge. “Here you go, mate. Breakfast.”
Emily edged toward the door.
“Blimey, it’s like a zoo in here. A cat *and* a dog in such a tiny flat? Isn’t it unhygienic? The hair, the smell… Your mum’s not allergic, is she?”
“Are *you*?” Stan asked quietly.
“Me? No… well, I don’t know. Never had pets. I don’t like them. They’re messy.”
Stan kept packing the bags in silence, his smile gone. Emily hovered by the door, shooing Buster away as he sniffed at her shoes.
“I’ll take them out later,” he finally said. “Mum’ll scold me for overfeeding them, but how can I say no?”
“Waste of time, if you ask me. Suppose someone’s got to, though,” Emily muttered, stepping outside.
On the way back, she chattered about the new canteen menu, how Susan from HR’s skirt was too short, how the accountant was on her third marriage. Stan barely spoke, only nodding occasionally. His mind buzzed: *Empty. Fake. Wrong.*
Back at the office, they handed him a thermos, hugged him, clapped him on the back. After work, they had drinks, ate too much. Emily stuck close—jokes, lingering looks, asking if he’d drive her home. But Stan just shook his head.
“Sorry, I’ve got plans. Important meeting.”
At home, his mum was waiting.
“How’d it go?” she asked, grinning as she opened the door.
“Brilliant, Mum. Your pies vanished first. Said they tasted like restaurant quality. Barely remembered I existed.”
“What about that girl you came with—Emily? The neighbour saw her—said she’s stunning. Is she…?”
“No. Just a colleague. And… well, there isn’t anyone. I lied before to make you happy. Sorry.”
“That’s alright. But if there *was* someone—what should she be like?”
Stan thought for a moment.
“Kind. Gentle. Clever. And… loves you. And Duke. And Buster.”
His mum chuckled.
“Oh, Stan. Just make sure she loves *you*. The rest will follow. Even that grumpy old tomcat.”
He nodded, grabbed the lead, called both “beasts,” and headed out. The three of them dashed across the courtyard, as if they were kids again—Mum at home, a bun in his schoolbag, a pup in his arms, a cat on his shoulder, and the whole world ahead.
His mum watched from the window, clutching her fist.
“Thirty years old, a manager, but still a boy at heart. God grant you real love, son… And may she love you *all* at once. Duke, Buster… and your silly old mum.”
