**Diary Entry**
I pulled the car up to the cemetery gates and took a deep breath. God, how many times had I meant to come here? How often had I put it off for “later”? When Mum was alive—there was never time. After she passed—it was as if the past had no place left in my life.
But it was high time I woke up. To realise the world I’d so carefully built around myself was nothing but a façade. Not a word, not a gesture had any real foundation. The irony was, I was almost grateful to Natalie—my ex-wife—for shattering that flimsy house of cards. One swift blow, and it all came crashing down. The picture-perfect marriage, those “genuine” friendships… Only to find out my wife, my best mate, and every last one of those so-called friends had known. And said nothing. It wasn’t just a betrayal. It was a wound I still hadn’t recovered from.
After the divorce, I fled back to my hometown. Eight years had passed since Mum’s funeral. Eight years! And not once had I found the time to visit her grave. Only now, when everything good in life had slipped through my fingers, did I understand one simple truth: Mum was the only person who’d never have betrayed me.
I’d married late—thirty-three to Natalie’s twenty-five. Back then, I’d been proud of her, like some sort of trophy. She was beautiful, polished, “sophisticated,” or so I’d thought. Now, I only remembered her face twisted with rage, the venom in her words—how she’d hated me all along, how every night with me had been agony. I still don’t know how I could’ve been so blind. She’d cried, begged forgiveness, claimed she felt lonely… But the moment I said “divorce,” the mask fell. There she was—the real her.
I grabbed the bouquet from the back seat and stepped out. Walking slowly, eyes fixed on the ground. The path must’ve been overgrown. I hadn’t even come when the headstone was placed—handled it all online, remotely. A perfect metaphor for my life: everything at arm’s length, nothing real.
The grave was tidy. The headstone clean. Fresh flowers, the soil neatly turned. Someone had been tending to it. Probably one of Mum’s old friends. Though… clearly, her own son hadn’t bothered.
I pushed open the gate and whispered,
“Hello, Mum…”
My throat tightened. Eyes burned. I hadn’t expected to cry. Me—a businessman, cold, calculating, always in control. Yet there I was, sobbing like a child. Didn’t try to stop the tears. They were a release, washing away everything tied to Natalie, to the betrayal, to the pain. As if Mum were right there, stroking my hair, murmuring, “There, there, love… It’ll be alright.”
I sat for a long time. Silent. But talking in my head. Remembering childhood—scraped knees, Mum dabbing iodine, saying, “It’ll heal, won’t leave a mark.” And it did. With time. The pain always faded. But she’d add, “You get used to anything… except betrayal.”
Now, I understood every word. Back then, they’d just been comforting phrases. Turned out, they were wisdom.
Paying the neighbour to look after the house wasn’t an issue, but how long could I leave it empty? I smiled, remembering how I’d met her. I’d been a wreck. And her daughter—Emily—had greeted me with such warmth… We talked, and somehow, things just happened. I left early the next morning, a note telling her where to leave the keys. To her, it might’ve seemed cruel. But I’d made no promises. It was just two lonely people seeking comfort. She’d just left a tyrant of a husband, told me how hard it had been. We clung to each other for a night.
“Excuse me, mister… could you help me?”
I turned sharply. A little girl, seven or eight, stood there with an empty bucket.
“I need water for the flowers. Mum and I just planted them, but she’s poorly today. It’s so hot—they’ll die! But the bucket’s too heavy. Don’t tell Mum I came alone, though. If I take tiny bits, she’ll still notice I was gone.”
I smiled.
“Course. Show me where to go.”
She chattered the whole way. In five minutes, I knew everything—how Mum had ignored advice and drunk cold water, how they’d come to visit Gran’s grave, how Gran would’ve scolded her for it. She’d been in school a whole year and was determined to get straight A’s—maybe even a gold medal one day!
With every word, I felt lighter. Children were miracles. I thought about how much I’d wanted a real family—a wife who loved me, a child waiting at home. Natalie had been like a porcelain doll—beautiful, hollow. Kids? Never. She’d called women who had them “stupid for ruining their figures.” Five years together. And now? Not a single warm memory of that marriage.
I set the bucket down, and she carefully watered the flowers. Then I glanced at the headstone—and froze. The photo was… my neighbour. Emily’s mother. This little girl’s gran.
“Margaret Carter was your grandmother?”
“Yeah! Did you know her? Oh—you were at Gran’s house!”
I stared at her.
“So you… live here with your mum?”
“Uh-huh! I told you—Mum won’t let me come alone.”
I was speechless. So Emily had come back. And she had a daughter. I hadn’t even known… Wait. How old was Lily? Maybe she’d been born after?
The girl dashed off with a quick goodbye, reminding me not to worry her mum.
Back at Mum’s grave, I sat and thought. Something had shifted inside. Maybe Emily was the one looking after the house now. And all this time, I’d been paying her, thinking it was her mother. But in the end, who cared who took the money?
Later, I drove to the house. My chest ached. Everything was just as I’d left it—as if Mum might step onto the porch any second, wipe her tears on her apron, and hug me. I stayed in the car a long time. She didn’t appear.
But the garden was a surprise—neat, vibrant, flowers in bloom. Emily had cared for the place. I’d have to thank her properly.
Inside was just as cosy, like someone had just popped out and would be back soon. I sat at the table a while but didn’t linger—needed to sort things with the neighbour first. Then maybe I could rest.
Lily opened the door.
“Oh, it’s you!” she whispered, finger to her lips. “Don’t tell Mum we met at the cemetery!”
I mimed zipping my lips, and she giggled.
“Come in!”
“Mum, Mr. Matthew’s here!” she called.
Emily appeared in the hall—and froze.
“It’s you…?”
I smiled.
“Hi.”
I glanced around—no husband, no sign of one.
“Matthew, I’m sorry… I didn’t tell you about Mum passing. Work’s been scarce, so I’ve been looking after the house myself.”
“I’m so sorry, Em. And thank you—for the house. Walking in… it’s like Mum just stepped out.”
“Are you staying long?”
“A few days.”
“Selling?”
I shrugged.
“Hadn’t thought about it. Here—this is for you. Consider it a bonus.”
I dropped a thick envelope on the table.
“Thanks, Mr. Matthew!” Lily chirped. “Mum’s wanted a new dress forever, and I want a bike!”
I laughed. Ah, that spirit!
By evening, I was ill. Fever spiked. Found Mum’s old thermometer—burning up. No idea what to take, so I texted the neighbour’s number. Only now, I knew it was Emily.
“What do you take for a high fever?”
Ten minutes later, they were at my door.
“Bloody hell, why’d you go in? I infected you!”
“Don’t be daft. You’re ill—why’d you come?”
“I’m better now!”
Emily handed me tablets; Lily brewed tea.
“You’ll burn yourself!” Emily fretted.
“Lily? Never! She’s a pro!”
I smiled. Then—click. Like when you suddenly solve a puzzle as a kid.
“Em…”
She tensed.
“What?”
“When was Lily born?”
She sank into a chair.
“Why?”
“Emily!”
She turned to Lily.
“Love, run to the shop—get some lemons. And some juice.”
“Okay, Mum!”
The second she was gone, Emily spoke.
“Matthew, let’s be clear: Lily has nothing to do withHe held them both close, whispering a promise to never let go again, and for the first time in years, he felt whole.
