**Diary Entry**
Mum, have you lost your mind? You’re over forty-five and now you want to have a baby? That’s absolute madness!
After my sixteenth birthday, everything in our family changed—my parents decided to separate. On the surface, their marriage had always seemed stable, but I suppose there were hidden cracks I never noticed. The divorce was quiet, no shouting matches, no bitter fights over property. Dad let Mum and me keep our two-bed flat, while he moved into the one-bedroom place he’d inherited from my grandmother.
Determined to start fresh, Mum quickly sold our flat, and we moved to another city. She refused to risk bumping into Dad, adamant about leaving the past behind. With quiet optimism, she settled us in—landed herself a well-paying job, rented a cosy flat, and slowly, we adjusted to our new normal.
A few months later, I couldn’t ignore the shift in her. She’d always been lovely, but now she took even greater care—frequent salon visits, a new wardrobe, that unmistakable glow in her eyes. She was in love, no doubt about it.
One evening, I finally asked outright, “Mum, you’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”
She flushed but didn’t deny it. “Yes. His name is Mark Whitmore. He’s a few years older. It’s serious. How do you feel about that?”
I shrugged. “If you’re happy, then so am I.”
She hugged me tightly, her face alight. “Thank you for understanding. I’d like you to meet him.”
Mark made a good first impression—polished, thoughtful, clearly devoted to Mum. They looked genuinely happy together. Soon, she was staying at his place more often, then moved in entirely.
With university applications looming, I didn’t mind the independence in our old flat—until one evening, she stopped by with a strange little smile. “I’ve got news…”
I guessed, “Mark proposed?”
She nodded. “Yes, but there’s more. We’re expecting a baby.”
I froze. “Mum, you’re forty-five! That’s risky. Are you sure about this?”
Her smile dimmed. “We’ve thought it through. This is our decision.”
Blurting out my fears, I said, “What if something goes wrong? Am I expected to step in and raise the baby with Mark?”
The colour drained from her face. Her voice turned icy. “I never expected such cruelty from you. If you can’t support me, you’re welcome to move in with your father. I’ll sell the flat and send you your half.”
I tried to talk to her the next day, but she refused. “We’ve nothing left to say.”
A week later, I was back in my hometown, living with Dad. He listened sympathetically, agreeing it was a reckless choice, but in the end, he said, “It’s her life.”
True to her word, Mum wired my share of the flat sale a month later. The note attached read only: *I never thought you’d wish me ill.*
Two years have passed. She’s blocked my number. Every attempt to reach her has failed. I don’t know if the pregnancy went smoothly, if the baby was born. Dad refuses to pry. The distance feels unnatural, but I don’t know how to bridge it. I’m terrified to show up uninvited—terrified of being turned away again.
