**Diary Entry – Who Can You Trust If Not Your Own Mother?**
I often think back to my childhood, which was happy in its own way. Now, at twenty-five, I’ve had my share of joy, disappointment, and betrayal.
When Mum married Dad—a young, promising lieutenant named James who’d just graduated from Sandhurst—she could hardly believe her luck. They’d been dating for over two years while he was training, though they rarely saw each other. Cadets weren’t given much leave.
“Lily, let’s go register at once,” he’d said, proud of his new rank and eager to settle at his first posting. “I’ll get things sorted, and you’ll join me later.”
“I’d love to,” Mum replied, overjoyed. She’d wanted nothing more than to escape her own home—her drunken, quarrelsome father, and a mother who defended him when he was sober, only for the cycle to repeat. No one paid Lily much attention growing up, so long as she was fed and clothed. Her mother had to fight just to get his wages before he drank them away.
*When I have a daughter,* Mum used to think, *I’ll love her properly. No shouting, no mess. I’ll marry a decent man.*
She joined Dad in a remote garrison town in Cumbria. The flat was tiny, half-furnished with military-issued bits, the rest cobbled together. “James, I’m so happy,” she’d say. “Just us two, no one else.”
A year and a half later, I was born. By then, Mum was mostly on her own—Dad was always away on exercises, returning long after I’d gone to bed. He missed me terribly.
We moved often—small towns, then bigger ones. One day, Dad came home and announced, “We’re off to London. Likely for good.”
“About time,” Mum said. “I’m sick of bouncing between postings. Other families stay put.”
“Lily, you married a soldier. Could’ve picked a civilian if you wanted stability. You’ve got a home, a car, money—what more do you want?”
But Mum, it seemed, had inherited her mother’s temper. Over time, she stopped paying me much attention, and I grew closer to Dad. They gave us a three-bedroom flat in the city centre—a far cry from our old cramped quarters. I loved the balcony, the view from the tenth floor.
I went to a good school. Dad served; Mum worked. But the rows worsened. He’d retreat to the balcony with his paper, waiting for her to tire herself out. She’d never follow—too afraid of what the neighbours might say.
Two years later, they divorced. I stayed with Mum; Dad moved across town, leaving us the flat.
“Come visit whenever you like,” he said, pressing a slip of paper with his new address into my hand. I hid it from Mum.
I saw him on weekends and holidays—walks in the park, ice cream, films. Mum, bitter, took it out on me. By secondary school, I’d learned to push back. We coexisted, barely speaking.
When it came time for university, I chose one far away. Bliss. I’d visit Dad, skip Mum.
Then, one holiday, I came home to find Mum living with Ian, a man just seven years older than me. He was always drunk—something I’d never seen in Dad, who only drank at celebrations. Ian would vanish for days, return worse.
“Mum, why put up with this?” I finally asked.
“None of your business. Don’t like it? Go to your father’s.”
I left after Ian barged into my room one night. Mum walked in just in time. Next morning, I packed my bag and never looked back.
Then, in my final year, I was hit by a car outside Dad’s flat. Hospital, broken leg. Dad visited when he could; his partner, Emily, came when he was away.
Reluctantly, I called Mum. She showed up two days later with a stranger.
“Darling, this is the solicitor. Your father never bothered, but I won’t leave you without a roof over your head. Sign these—the flat’s yours when I’m gone.”
I signed.
After graduation, I stayed in London, working, saving for my own place.
Then I rang Mum. “How are you?”
“Oh, getting by. Split with Ian—had enough of his drinking.”
*Finally.*
“Sold the flat, bought a two-bedder. You’ll visit, and it’ll be yours one day.”
Later, a neighbour told me the truth: Ian owned my old flat. Mum had sold his one-bed, put the money in his name, and drunk it all away. The documents I’d signed? Worthless.
I confronted her. She was tipsy.
“Mum, why leave me with nothing?”
“You’ll earn your own. Fancy a drink to celebrate?”
I walked out. Dad and Emily promised to help me buy a place someday.
“Don’t rush into marriage,” he said. “Found anyone yet?”
“Yes—Andrew. He’s like you. I know what to look for.”
I cut ties with Mum. She never called.
*What do you know about life?* she’d said. *Mine’s interesting. Yours?*
We’ll never agree on what “interesting” means. Hers is a slow, sinking wreck. Mine? I’ll make sure it’s better.
