**Diary Entry – 14th June**
I suppose it’s true what they say—some families are just unlucky in love. Nan used to say it, Mum too. Great-Nan was widowed at twenty-two, Nan lost Granddad at the factory, and Mum? She raised me alone before I’d even turned three. I never believed in curses, not really. But deep down, I always feared my own heart would break one day. Still, I hoped—for warmth, peace, a home. Someone to share it all with.
I met James at the packaging plant where I worked. He worked in a different section, but we took our breaks in the same canteen. It was quick—a few dates, a proposal, then marriage. He moved into Nan’s old flat after she passed. Mum was gone by then too. For a while, it was calm. Our first son came, then the second. I kept everything running—meals, laundry, school runs. James worked, brought home the wages, but he was home less and less, his silence heavier each night.
Then the late hours started. The scent of another woman’s perfume on his shirts. I knew. I didn’t ask—too afraid to face raising the boys alone. But one evening, I cracked.
*”Think of the children, please. I’m begging you.”*
He only stared. Cold. No excuses, no shouting. The next morning, I made breakfast. He didn’t touch it.
*”All you’re good for is scrubbing floors,”* he sneered.
A week later, he left. Just packed a bag and walked out.
*”Don’t go—the boys need their dad!”* I sobbed in the hallway.
*”Pathetic little maid,”* he spat. The boys heard. Sat huddled on the sofa, confused. What had they done wrong? Why had he gone?
I didn’t crumble. I worked—cleaning offices, mopping stairwells, hauling shopping bags. The boys helped; they grew up fast. I forgot about myself, about love. But life has a way of surprising you.
One day at the grocer’s, my tea bags spilled. A stranger picked them up, smiling.
*”Need a hand with those?”*
*”I’m fine,”* I muttered.
*”Too late,”* he laughed, already lifting my bags.
His name was Thomas. He kept turning up—same shop, same time. Then he started walking me home. Soon, he was helping me clean the building. The boys were wary at first, but he was patient. Kind. For his first dinner with us, he brought a Victoria sponge and white roses. When our eldest joked, *”You play basketball or what?”* Thomas grinned.
*”Back in school. Feels like centuries ago.”*
Later, he confessed: *”Car crash. I’m slower now—speech, movement. My wife left. I’d understand if you asked me to go.”*
*”If the boys are happy, stay,”* I said simply.
He proposed. Properly. Asked to speak to the lads first.
*”Maybe I could be a real dad to them.”*
That night, I explained everything. The boys hugged me.
*”Our dad left and forgot us,”* the youngest said. *”Be nice to have one who stays.”*
So Thomas stayed. Taught them football, helped with homework, fixed shelves, told terrible jokes. The house felt alive again. Years passed. The boys became men. When our eldest fell in love, he went to Thomas for advice.
Then the doorbell rang.
James stood there.
*”I was a fool. Take me back. We’ll fix this—”*
*”Piss off,”* our eldest snapped.
*”Is that how you speak to your father?!”* James roared.
*”Don’t you talk to my son like that,”* Thomas said, quiet but firm.
*”We don’t need you,”* the youngest added. *”We’ve got a dad.”*
He shut the door. For good.
I stood there, looking at them—my protectors, my family. The one I’d fought for, built from nothing. For the first time in years, I was happy. Truly happy.
