**Diary Entry**
*24th of June, 2024*
I read the email one last time, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I pressed “Send.” There. Now, a cup of tea and a bit of time to myself. I leaned back in my chair, savoring the silence before closing the inbox and heading out of my office. The break room smelled faintly of mildew and teabags. Clara sat at the table, dabbing at her nose with a crumpled tissue. I hesitated—workplace drama rarely interested me. Maybe her project got cut? I made my usual tea, that instant stuff in a chipped mug, and joined her.
Clara sniffled, her eyes glassy and evasive when I asked what had happened. “Not your business,” she snapped, then turned to the window like a sulky child. I sipped my tea, unamused. Just yesterday, I’d seen her climb into that sleek red convertible, smirking at the office group chatting outside. Of course, the charm didn’t last. Now she sat in the wreckage of a broken promise, weeping over what never was.
I slid a fresh pack of tissues toward her. “Don’t let the others hear. Gossip spreads like fire here. And whatever you do, don’t delay what’s needed.” She stiffened, face pale. “How do you know?”
“Enough people leave half-a-life behind for illusions,” I said coldly. “He said one thing, did another. You’re pregnant. *Spare me.*” I leaned forward. “You think raising a child alone in this city will be a fairy tale? You’ll be swapping translations at night to feed it, passing it off to a nanny while you work. Then you’ll go mad, teaching day jobs just to survive. By the time you’re competent, you’ll be too tired to care. And if you even think about marriage?”
Clara flinched. “You’d do it your way, of course. Marry a bloke who finds you ‘insufficient’ eventually and jacks it all to chase younger versions of you. Then you’ll be back to two jobs, two kids, and a lifetime of pretending you’re fine.”
“Stop it!” she hissed, slamming her palm on the table. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.” I drained my tea, not unkindly. “My parents taught me the truth.” She stormed out, leaving tissues sopping with tears and pride.
Back at my desk, I thought of the boy with the car—likely married already, or worse, playing the same game with someone else. *Typical.*
“Olivia,” my secretary, Lena, popped in. “Mr. Harris is looking for you.”
“Send him through.” I deleted the draft of my resignation email. London’s translations firm had offered twice my salary. Boring, yes, but practical. Let the office gossips dream of romance while I calculated ROI on new clients.
I was known as the “ice queen,” the one who’d rather negotiate a multimillion-pound contract than grace a date with a second glance. They didn’t understand. My mother’s betrayal taught me the cost of trust.
***
When I was sixteen, my parents’ fights grew daily. My father, a former engineer turned maths tutor, earned just enough for bare bones. My mother, once a dreamer of grandeur, had grown to resent him. She’d taken night shifts at a call center, returning late, drunk on cheap wine and resentment.
One night, I woke to shouting. My father’s voice, strained: “Do you want to wake the whole street? Again?” I peered into the hallway where she stood, her face red, spilling over with spite.
“I’m tired of your *‘I can’t.’* Look at me—nothing left for all these years. You promised, David. *Promised.*”
He tried to reason, but she lashed out, drunk and furious. “You’re a failure. A *disappointment.*” I heard the slap, the crash of a lamp. My throat tightened as I crept back to bed, hugging the covers up to my ears.
In the morning, Dad was gone. My mother pretended he’d been on a business trip. But I’d seen the car waiting at the curb when she returned, a man I never met lingering by the gates.
Weeks later, I asked outright. “You and Dad are splitting? You don’t love him anymore?”
She’d laughed, a brittle sound. “You’re old enough now. Maybe you’ll understand.” I didn’t. He’d been my hero, the man who taught me to fly kites on Hampstead Heath. How could she trade that for *what?*
My father moved in with a woman who shared a flat in Islington, squeezing himself into a kitchen cot. I visited, but he smiled weakly, insisting, “It’s better this way.”
From then on, I vowed to be my own safety net. Men, money, love—books were easier, contracts clearer. I worked two jobs through university, translating anything for cash. By twenty-five, I owned a flat in Cheam, divorced from the rest.
Clara’s job offer today felt like fate. London, with its endless clients and glass towers, was my version of escape. But before I left, I visited my father.
“Dad, I’m moving.” He lit a cigarette, nodding. “You’ll miss the easy street?”
“Just promise to call.”
He waved it off. “Mum’s selling the flat, anyway. Stay well.”
“Will you come here?”
“Not unless I’m starved.” He looked older, the lines in his face deep as the Thames.
“Eloise?” I pointed to the microwave meal on his counter. “Married life treating you well?” He coughed, grinning. “Don’t let it be too sentimental, pet.”
I left, avoiding my mother’s address. When I passed her street, her current boyfriend leaned against the gates, berating her for wasting wages on *“fripperies.”* She slung a bag at him, her voice cracking.
I walked on, clutching my coat like a shield. If they’d only taught me how to love, maybe I’d have tried. But I’d learned better. London’s skyline was worth more than a man’s promises.
Without that fight, who knows where I’d be? Married to some cheerful fool, counting pence instead of pounds, dreading the Monday routine. No, my child will never hear my arguments, nor mine hers. Let them build their own mistakes. Some scars are worth the peace they buy.
