**Diary Entry**
“Mother, have you completely lost your mind?”
Emily’s words stung Lydia like a punch to the gut. It hurt. She kept peeling potatoes in silence, her fingers trembling slightly.
“People are already pointing fingers—mum’s gone off the rails! If it were Dad, fine, but you? A woman! The heart of the home! Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek, then another. Soon, they were falling freely, but Emily kept raging.
Her husband, Oliver, sat slumped on a chair, lips pouted, shoulders sagging. “Dad’s ill. He needs care,” he whimpered. “How could you do this? After everything… you had a child together, built a life. And now… what? Running off when he’s sick?”
Lydia finally looked up. “How *should* I do it, then?”
“Are you serious?” Oliver gaped. “Look at him—look what you’re doing!”
“Emily,” Lydia said softly, “you act as if I’m some villain, not your mother.”
“Mum, stop playing the victim! I can’t—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* talk sense into you. This is humiliating!”
Emily turned to her father. “Imagine—I’m walking home from uni, and there they are, strolling arm in arm. Probably reciting love poems he wrote, right, Mum?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. Young and foolish.”
“No remorse at all! Right, that’s it. I’m calling *both* grandmothers.”
Lydia straightened her apron, brushed invisible lint off her dress… then stood.
“All right, my dears. I’m leaving.”
“*What?*” Oliver’s voice cracked. “Where… what about me?”
Emily was already ranting into the phone.
“Emily—Emily!” Oliver wailed like he was at a funeral. “She… she says she’s leaving!”
“Leaving? *Where?* Mum, have you lost it? At *your* age?”
Lydia smirked and started packing.
She’d tried to leave before. But then Oliver’s back flared up—oh, how he suffered! “Lyds,” he’d groaned, “must be a slipped disc.”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Pf. Doctors—they *say* nothing, so they can bleed you dry later. Happened to Gary at work—just ‘back pain’ at first, turned out some horrific spinal thing…”
She stayed. She couldn’t abandon him.
Now?
Her friend Rose’s voice echoed in her head: *”You’re a slave to them. What’s Oliver ever given you?*”
Nothing.
Her friends boasted of their husbands—*”Martin’s taking us to Cornwall!”*—while Lydia’s only family photo was Oliver’s birthday, once a year.
Gifts? A hoover. A dumpling steamer (*he loves dumplings*). A perfume set—left to gather dust in his mother’s cabinet.
Three tulips on Mother’s Day. A single rose for her birthday.
She’d slept through her own life.
Rose had been harsher: *”You married a loser. Why?*”
Lydia had no answer.
She remembered… pity. Oliver had been awkward—glasses too big, no confidence. Other boys rode motorcycles or played guitar. He just whined. Followed her home.
Her mother caught them talking once. *”If he’s hanging around, marry him.”*
So she did.
Stupid.
Now?
She had a place to go. A flat. Divorce papers ready. The house? Hers—every penny earned by *her* hands.
Emily would side with Oliver. Let her.
No, she wasn’t leaving for another man. Peter was just a friend—hiking trips, like the old days.
She wanted… quiet. Herself.
****
Oh, the backlash!
*Poor Oliver, the saint. Lydia, the harlot.*
Her mother shrieked: *”Beg his forgiveness!”* His mum faked a heart attack—Lydia stepped right over her.
Neighbours took *her* side. They’d seen how she lived.
Emily came later. Apologised.
They’re rebuilding.
Oliver brought four carnations—wrapped in newspaper—begged her back.
She refused.
A month after the divorce? He was parading with Millie. Back fine now.
*Millie won’t put up with his nonsense.*
Lydia doesn’t care.
She’s learning to live.
Emily booked her a spa day.
Peter invited her hiking.
It’s never too late to start again.
Hard at first… then smooth as butter.
