**Diary Entry – March 15, 2024**
If only I’d known how things would turn out…
The bus jolted over potholes, the driver swearing under his breath as he swerved around waterlogged craters, even veering into the opposite lane at times. Few passengers rode at this hour—just another workday.
John stared out the window at the grimy, melting snow. Spring was close; summer wouldn’t be far behind. Another bump, another curse from the driver.
“Bloody road’ll shake the wheels off.”
Finally, the cemetery gates came into view, rows of headstones stretching beyond. Every visit filled him with the same heavy sense of inevitability—life slipping away, his own fate waiting here someday. He didn’t come out of love, only duty. Guilt twisted in his chest at the thought, and he sighed sharply.
The bus stopped. Passengers stretched stiff legs, heading straight for the stalls of plastic flowers lining the fence. John walked past, searching for real ones. The garish wax-coated petals made his eyes ache. At the end, a woman stood beside a bucket of red carnations.
He bought four, then stepped through the gates. Puddles swallowed the paths. He picked his way carefully, regretting his old winter boots as icy water seeped in.
Near the tree line, he turned left. His wife’s grave stood out by its wooden cross. *Should’ve bought a headstone by now. Or wait—maybe James will sort it for us both later.* Around him, temporary crosses had vanished, replaced by fresh plots. So many since autumn.
He stepped over the low iron rail, boots sinking into slush. Cold soaked through his socks.
“Hello, Lydia.”
From the faded photograph propped against the cross, his wife smiled back. He loved that picture—her at thirty-six, frozen in time.
He remembered that birthday. He’d rushed out for flowers, and when he returned, she’d already dressed up, glowing in a new dress. He gave her gold earrings; she put them on straight away, laughing as he snapped the photo. Like it was yesterday…
“Happy birthday. You’d have been fifty-six today.” He hesitated, figuring where to place the carnations.
The grave was buried in plastic blooms—bright, unchanging, as if placed yesterday. He bent, pulled a frostbitten branch of yellow flowers from the snow, and tucked his carnations into the gap. Frozen earth wouldn’t take them; they’d topple when the thaw came. Modest against the gaudy fakes, but alive.
“Miss you. Can’t come often—sorry. Don’t be angry. *I* deserved this plot, not you. But life had other plans…”
He talked until his feet numbed, sharing news between the crows’ harsh cries. The silence pressed heavier each time.
“Better go, love. Wore these old boots, and now my feet are soaked. No one to scold me now. I’ll come back after Easter, when it’s dry. Tidy up, bring a new photo—same one. Too pretty here. Forgive me.” He stepped over the rail and left without looking back.
At the stop, a handful of people waited. By the time the bus came, his toes had lost all feeling.
Home at last, he peeled off wet socks, boiled the kettle, and drank two cups of honeyed tea. Wool socks, telly on, stretched out on the sofa. Some film droned. Warmth dragged him toward sleep…
***
Molly joined the construction site fresh out of college. Young, bright-eyed, freckles on her nose, her smile like spring sunshine. John couldn’t help staring. Married, with a son in primary school—yet he couldn’t look away. What was he meant to do? Avoid her?
One evening near Christmas, they met at the bus stop. Molly huddled into her coat collar, lamplight swimming in her wide eyes. He stole glances until the bus came, shoving past to sit beside her.
“Evening, Molly. Heading home?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Same.” He paused. “Tree up yet?”
“Not yet. Dad always got a real one. Left it on the balcony till the 30th, then we’d all decorate. The smell—instant Christmas.”
“Today *is* the 30th. Got a pine waiting?”
She laughed, clear and bright. He couldn’t help smiling.
“Parents live miles off. Mine’s fake. I’ll drag the box out tonight, string it with lights. Hang sweets, like Mum did. Tea, then just… sit and stare at it.” Another laugh.
He pictured her flat—tree, Molly reaching up, cheeks pink, kettle humming in the kitchen…
“Mind if I join you?” The words spilled out.
“Why?”
“Help decorate. Share that tea.” He flushed at his own boldness. What must she think?
“The way you said it—the tree, the tea… My wife and boy did ours weeks ago. Just… wanted that spark, y’know?”
“Alright,” she said simply, eyes holding his.
They built the tree, tangled in tinsel, laughing like old friends. He didn’t want to leave.
New Year’s Eve, he went back. Lied to Lydia—he remembered *exactly* what he’d said, how she’d looked at him, *known*. But he couldn’t stop. Molly pulled him in, no resistance left.
He started dropping by. Molly never asked questions, though sometimes he caught sadness in her eyes—same as Lydia’s when he came home.
One evening, resolved to confess, he stepped inside to find Lydia in tears.
“What’s wrong?” *Did she find out?* Maybe it was for the best.
But it was his mother—hospitalised, critical. No time for truths.
Later, Mum moved in. Couldn’t live alone. Lydia agreed without hesitation, though the care would fall on her.
Now John couldn’t leave. Hired a carer, till Lydia came home early, found her drunk. Sacked her on the spot.
No more risks. Lydia quit her job, took over.
John went to Molly to say goodbye. Apologised for the mess, for wasting her time. She was young—should marry, have kids, not waste years on a married man.
In the hallway, she clung to him a long while before pushing him away.
Walking home, he cursed himself. Coward. At work, they nodded stiffly. Then he saw her with that intern—glasses, nice-looking. Jealousy near split his chest. Days passed like walking underwater. Soon after, Molly married him.
Mum died three years later, just before New Year’s. After the funeral, Lydia rested a month, then returned to work. The medical check-up found a tumour. Then surgery. Chemo. More surgery. More chemo…
At the bus stop one day, Molly appeared.
“You look awful. Tired, or… worse?”
“Mum first, now Lydia. My fault. That day I meant to leave her—*that’s* when Mum collapsed. Like divine punishment.”
Molly paled. “Then I’m punished too.”
“You? Why?”
“For loving a married man. I can’t have children. My husband left me.”
“Christ… I’m sorry.”
On the bus, they sat in silence.
Lydia faded daily, frail as paper. Guilt gnawed him. Why her? Why not him?
“Want anything? You’ve barely eaten.” He took her thin hand.
“Just stay. I knew about her. Don’t ask how. Waited for you to leave. Scared… but waiting.”
“There’s no one. Not for years. Why didn’t you—?”
“Why? Loved you too much. Blamed myself. Lying awake, wishing *she’d* suffer like me. Brought this on myself. Even… even felt glad when your mum got ill. Kept you with me. You *were* going to leave?”
“No. Never.” He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Doesn’t matter now. If I’d known… You’re still young. If she’s free, go to her.”
“Don’t—you’ll get better.” The lie choked him.
Watching her die—no worse punishment.
“Forgive me. All my fault.” He pressed her hand to his lips, weeping.
Two days later, she was gone.
***
John woke gasping from the dream—his whole life replayed in perfect, painful detail.
In the kitchen, he gulped water, staring at the city lights. What’s heavier than loneliness and unshakable guilt? Reliving it all, awake or asleep.
He wouldn’t go to Molly. Two broken halves don’t make a whole. That ship had sailed.
His son offered to take him in. John refused. Didn’t want to intrude.
We chase desire, passion, never thinking of the price. Sooner or later, it’s paid. What’s worse—dying young, illness absolving your sins, or living on, alone with the weight of them?
We don’t ask for happiness. Just a little lessAnd as the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, he realized the only forgiveness left to seek was his own.
