**Diary Entry**
I often think back to my childhood—those fleeting moments of happiness before life showed me its harsher truths. At twenty-five, I’ve known joy, sorrow, and betrayal.
When Lieutenant Edward, fresh out of Sandhurst, proposed to my mother Emily, she could hardly believe it. They’d dated for over two years while he trained, meeting only when cadets were granted leave.
“Em, let’s get married straight away,” he said, proud of his new rank and eager to start a family. “I’ll settle at my new posting, and you can join me later.”
“I’d love to,” Emily replied, relieved to escape her drunken, quarrelsome father and indifferent mother.
Emily’s mother made excuses for her husband when he was sober, fussing over him until the next outburst. No one paid much attention to Emily—so long as she was fed and clothed. Her mother fought for his wages, only for him to drink them away.
“I’ll be different with my own daughter,” Emily vowed. “No shouting, no misery. I’ll marry a good man.”
She joined Edward in a remote Yorkshire village where he was stationed. Their one-bedroom flat was sparsely furnished, half with army-issue belongings.
“Eddie, just us now,” she’d say, thrilled to be her own mistress.
A year and a half later, I was born. Emily coped mostly alone—Edward was often away on exercises or duty. By the time he returned, I’d usually be asleep.
We moved often—first to a small market town, then elsewhere. One evening, Edward came home with news: “We’re being posted to London. Likely for good.”
“Finally,” Emily said. “I’m sick of moving. Other families stay put.”
“Em, you married a soldier. You’ve got a home, a car, money—what more do you want?”
But Emily, like her mother, grew distant. As I grew older, I bonded with my father. They gave us a three-bedroom flat in the city centre—my first proper home. The balcony, ten floors up, became my sanctuary.
I attended a good school. Edward worked; Emily too. But their arguments grew worse. He’d retreat to the balcony with a newspaper while she raged—too proud to make a scene outside where neighbours might gossip.
Two years later, they divorced. I stayed with Emily; Edward moved across the city, leaving us the flat.
“Visit whenever you like,” he said, handing me his address. I tucked it away, out of sight.
I saw him on weekends and holidays—walks in the park, cinema trips, ice cream. Emily’s resentment festered, and she took it out on me. By secondary school, I pushed back. We coexisted, strangers under one roof.
When university applications loomed, I chose a school far away. Dorm life was freedom.
“I’ll visit Mum on breaks,” I told myself.
But returning home, I found Emily living with Keith, a man only seven years my senior. He was always drunk—something unfamiliar to me, as Edward barely drank.
“Mum, why put up with him?” I finally asked.
“None of your business. Don’t like it? Go to your father.”
I left the next morning after Keith barged into my room. Only Emily’s return stopped him.
“I’ll never go back while he’s there,” I decided.
By fourth year, I visited Edward and his new partner, Anna, who treated me kindly. Then, outside their home, a car hit me. Hospitalised with a broken leg, Edward visited when he could. Anna came often, too.
I called Emily. She arrived days later with a notary.
“Sign these,” she said. “Your father didn’t plan ahead, but I won’t leave you homeless. This flat will be yours when I’m gone.”
I signed. After graduating, I stayed in London, working and saving—dreaming of my own place.
Then I called Emily again.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Fine. Left Keith. Had enough of his drinking.”
“Thank God,” I said.
“I sold the flat, bought a two-bed. You’ll inherit it.”
But our old neighbour, Sarah, revealed the truth: Emily had transferred ownership to Keith. They’d sold his flat, squandered the money, and now shared the two-bedroom.
I confronted her.
“Mum, why leave me with nothing?”
“You’ll earn your own way,” she slurred. “Fancy a drink?”
Disgusted, I left. Edward reassured me: “We’ll help you buy a place in time. Just choose the right husband.”
“I have, Dad. His name’s Oliver. He’s like you.”
I cut ties with Emily. She didn’t care—too busy with what she called her “interesting” life. I’ll never understand it.
Some people sink slowly, dragging others down. But I won’t follow.
