**Diary Entry – October 12th**
I’m sixty years old, living in York. It never crossed my mind that after all these years, two decades of silence, the past would barge back into my life so shamelessly. The cruelest part? It was my own son who brought it all back.
When I was twenty-five, I was madly in love. Richard—tall, charming, full of laughter—seemed like a dream come true. We married quickly, and within a year, we had our son, James. The early years felt like a fairy tale. We lived in a modest flat, dreaming together, making plans. I was a teacher; he was an engineer. Back then, I thought nothing could break us.
But over time, Richard changed. He stayed out late, lied, grew distant. I ignored the rumours, pretended not to notice the scent of another woman’s perfume. But eventually, the truth was undeniable: he’d been unfaithful. More than once. Friends, neighbours, even my parents knew. But I stayed—for James. I held on too long, hoping he’d change. Then one night, I woke to find his side of the bed empty, and something in me snapped.
I packed our things, took five-year-old James by the hand, and moved in with my mother. Richard didn’t try to stop us. A month later, he left for work abroad, found another woman, and erased us from his life. No letters, no calls. Just silence. And there I was, alone. My parents passed; it was just James and me. School, hobbies, illnesses, graduations—I worked myself to the bone to give him everything. I never remarried—there was no room for it. He was my whole world.
When he left for university in Manchester, I sent what I could—parcels, money, endless encouragement. But a flat? I couldn’t afford that. He never complained, said he’d manage. I was so proud.
Then, a month ago, he visited with news: he was getting married. My joy faded fast. He fidgeted, avoided my eyes. Then it spilled out:
“Mum… I need your help. It’s about Dad.”
I froze. He’d reconnected with Richard, who was back in England. His father had offered him keys to a two-bedroom flat—inherited from his grandmother. But there was a condition. I had to remarry Richard. Let him move into *my* home.
My chest tightened. I stared, waiting for the punchline. But James kept going:
“You’re on your own… Why not try again? For me. For my future. Dad’s changed—”
I walked to the kitchen without a word. The kettle, the tea, my shaking hands—everything blurred. Twenty years I carried us alone. Twenty years without a word from him. And now this? A *deal*?
I returned and said, quietly, “No. I won’t do it.”
James erupted. Shouting, blaming me—claiming I’d robbed him of a father, that I was selfish, that I was ruining his life now. I stayed silent. Every word cut deeper. He didn’t know about the sleepless nights, the shifts I worked, the wedding ring I sold to buy him a winter coat.
I’m not lonely. My life’s been hard, but it’s honest. I’ve my job, my books, my garden, my friends. I won’t take back a man who betrayed me—not for comfort, not for bricks and mortar.
James left without saying goodbye. He hasn’t called since. I know he’s hurt. I understand—he wants better, just as I once did. But dignity isn’t something I’ll trade for square footage. The price is too high.
Maybe he’ll understand one day. Maybe not soon. But I’ll wait. Because I love him—truly, without conditions or flats or *if*s. I brought him into this world with love. Raised him with love. And I won’t let love become a transaction now.
As for Richard? The past can keep him.