28October2025
Dear Diary,
This morning started with a tiny storm in the kitchen. Claire stood there, arms crossed, her freshly polished nails catching the light as she gestured sharply toward the aging but sturdy kitchen suite. I sighed, set down my mug of lukewarm tea, and thought, Not again.
Claire, weve already talked about this, I said, trying to keep my voice level. Ive got a big contract on the go, but the payment wont arrive for another two months. We cant just splash £30,000 on a new kitchen now. This one still holds up.
She laughed, a thin, almost mocking sound. Sturdy is a word my granny would use, not me. Shed call it oldfashioned, not strong. I want our flat to feel cosy and pretty, a place where I can invite friends without feeling embarrassed by cracked tiles. Is that really too much to ask?
At fortyfive, Ive spent the last five years after Annes death living alone with our two childrenThomas, nineteen, and Milly, fourteen. Life became a relentless loop of work, house chores, school runs, and parentteacher meetings, each day blending into the next. Then Claire burst in like fireworks, bright and loud, reminding me that I could be more than a solitary dad. We fell in love quickly, almost recklessly, and after a modest wedding we signed the register and celebrated with a quiet dinner among close friends. Now, a month on, shes my lawful wife and the lady of our threebedroom flat in north London.
I get it, I said, trying to bridge the gap. I want you to be happy too. Lets wait a bit. When I finish the project, well order the glossy white cabinets youve been dreaming of.
She softened, stepping close and wrapping her arms around my neck. Her perfume was expensive, sweet, with a hint of coffee. Sorry, I didnt mean to pressure you, she murmured. I just want to make our nest feel brand new.
Just then, Milly padded in barefoot, her long blonde braid swinging. She looked so much like Anne.
Dad, good morning. Have you seen my drawing sketchbook?
Morning, love. I think I left it on the coffee table in the lounge yesterday.
She gave us both a quick, nervous glance before whispering, Morning.
Claires tone was sharp. And perhaps you should wash up and brush your hair before breakfast.
Milly flushed a deep red, muttered an apology, and slipped away down the hallway. I frowned at Claire.
Why the harshness? Shes just a child.
Exactly, Claire replied. A child who needs structure, otherwise shell grow into a mess. Im only trying to help.
Soon after, Thomas trudged in, his shoulders slumped, and eyed the fridge.
Anything to eat? he grumbled.
Eggs? I offered, trying to lighten the mood.
Sure.
Claire moved to the window, clearly annoyed by the presence of my kids. She never said it outright, but it weighed on every gesture, every glance. I hoped, over time, wed all learn to live together, that the friction would ease. I wanted a happy new family.
After breakfast, I retreated to my workshopa small room Id turned into a carpentry haven. The smell of timber, varnish, and wax always steadied me. I was restoring an old rocking chair, coaxing out its intricate carvings. The work demanded my full attention and gave me a respite from the heavy thoughts.
I love Claire. I love her laugh, her energy, the way she looks at me. Yet each day I see more clearly that our worlds are different. She revels in social gatherings, gallery openings, fine dining. My world is the scent of wood shavings, Thomass teenage dramas, Millys watercolor sketches pinned to the walls, and quiet evenings with a book. And theres the memory of Anneher gentle smile, her love that filled the house not with polished surfaces but with warmth. Her picture still sits on a shelf in my workshop, a reminder that I once promised to look after our children.
Evening brought a surprise: boxes stacked in the hallway.
Whats all this? I asked, eyeing the neatly packed items.
I thought it was time to declutter, Claire said cheerfully, emerging from the living room. You have no idea how much junk has piled up. Look, this horrid vase, old magazines, some kids crafts.
I opened a box and found a misshapen clay hedgehog Milly had made in Year5. I remembered how proud shed been.
Claire, thats not junk, I said as calmly as I could. Its our memories.
Sweetheart, memories belong in the heart, not gathering dust in corners, she replied, smiling with a cold edge. We agreed to start a new life, and a new life needs space free of the past.
Her words, though spoken lightly, left a chill. I carried the box back and placed the hedgehog on a shelf, feeling an invisible wall rising between us.
A week passed, and tension grew. Claires remarks about the children multipliedThomass music too loud, Milly spilling paint again, dishes left unwashed. The kids withdrew, speaking little when she was near. Thomas started staying out later with friends; Milly retreated to her room, drawing bleak landscapes. I found myself torn, trying to be both a loving husband and a caring father.
One night I caught Milly crying.
Whats wrong, love?
She handed me her sketchbook. On one page was a vivid portrait of Anne, strikingly lifelike.
Beautiful, I said. You have real talent. Why are you crying?
Claire said I shouldnt live in the past, Milly whispered. She told me I shouldnt draw her portrait, as if I should forget Mum.
I held her close, a deep, silent fury bubbling inside. That night I decided I would speak to Claire seriously.
When the children were asleep, I slipped into the bedroom where Claire was applying some cream to her face.
We need to talk, I began, without preamble.
Again? Im exhausted, Andrew. Ive had a hard day at the salon.
Why did you hurt Milly? Why bring up the portrait?
Claires face was calm, almost indifferent.
I was just giving my opinion. I think its unhealthy for a teenager to cling to the past. She should move onfor her own good.
Her mother is dead! I raised my voice. She has the right to remember, to draw, to talk about her. Its part of who she is!
It blocks building a new life! Claire shot back. I didnt marry you to become a caretaker of your previous familys museum. Everywhere I lookphotos, recipes, her things, now endless drawings! I cant take it.
She leapt up, eyes flashing. The woman I fell in love with seemed to vanish, replaced by someone angry and selfish.
I want to be the lady of this house, she snarled, breathing heavily. A proper lady! I want things my way, but your kids stand in the way.
I felt the temperature drop as I realized where she was heading.
What are you trying to say?
Claire inhaled deeply, then stepped close, staring straight into my eyes.
Andrew, I love you. I want a normal familymy family. Not a shared flat with two moody teenagers who hate me.
She paused, then dropped the bomb.
Your children from the first marriage will not live here.
Silence fell, deafening. I stared at her, words stuck in my throat, as if the floor might give way beneath me.
What? I managed, though Id heard it all.
You understand, she said more calmly. Grandma could look after them, or we could rent them a flat once Thomas turns eighteen. There are care homes, after all. Well visit, well help, but they must live elsewhere. I want this house to be oursjust ours.
She spoke as if discussing a new sofa, not the lives of my children.
Are you out of your mind? I croaked. Send my own kids to Grandma? To a care home?
Whats wrong with that? she shrugged. A lot of people do it. Its a civilized solution. Andrew, you have to choose: either we build our new life together, or you stay stuck in the past with your kids. Its you or them.
She turned and lay down, facing the wall, as if the conversation were over. The ultimatum hung heavy in the air.
I left the bedroom, my legs stiff, and shuffled to the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of water, but my trembling hands spilled half of it. I sat at the very table that had sparked our morning argument. The triviality of the cabinets suddenly seemed small compared to the storm raging inside me.
I felt like a traitorfirst to Anne, whose memory Id vowed to protect, then to Thomas and Milly, whod already endured so much loss. Now I was forced to choose between them and a new woman.
I slipped quietly into Millys room. She slept, clutching a plush bear, her sketchbook and her mothers portrait lying on the bedside table. I peeked into Thomass room; he slept with his arms spread, a poster of his favourite band on the wall. This was their world, their safe haven, the home Id built with my own hands.
The night stretched on without sleep. I roamed the flat like a ghost, looking at the repaired chair Id built with Thomas, the bookshelf wed assembled with Milly, Annes battered recipe book on the kitchen shelf, its pages soft from years of use. All of this was my real life, not the glossy picture Claire wanted to paint.
I remembered how Claire had entered my life when I was broken, bringing laughter and a sense that life could go on. Id been grateful, even blinded to her selfishness, believing everything would sort itself out.
Morning arrived with a strange calm. Claire was already at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, looking fresh as if yesterdays argument hadnt happened.
Good morning, love, she sang cheerfully. I hope youve thought it through.
I filled my cup and sat opposite her.
Yes, I said evenly. Ive thought it through.
I met her gaze, and any lingering love had drained away, leaving only a cold, empty void.
You can start packing your things, I said softly but firmly.
She froze, coffee halfway to her lips.
What? What did you just say?
I said you should collect your belongings. Youre no longer welcome here.
Her mask of composure cracked, revealing anger and bewilderment.
You youre kicking me out? Because of them? You choose them over me?
Its not about them, I corrected. Its about my children. Ive never chosen between you and them, because such a choice is impossible. Family isnt something you can discard like old furniture. I guess I forgot that. Thanks for reminding me.
Youll regret this! she shouted. Youll be left alone in your little cave with your memories and two calves! No decent woman will ever live with you!
Perhaps, I replied calmly. But Id rather be alone than betray the most precious thing I have.
I rose and headed back to the workshop, unwilling to hear any more. The door slammed behind me, the clatter of dishes echoing. Somewhere upstairs I could hear the crash of Claire hurling her things into a suitcase.
I stood at my bench, tools in hand, my carpenters hands trembling slightly. I glanced at Annes photograph, her warm smile still bright.
After half an hour the house fell silent. The front door clicked open as Claire left for good.
In the hallway I found a silk scarf shed abandoned in her haste. I tossed it into the bin. The flat settled into a hush, a quiet I hadnt felt in years. It wasnt the oppressive silence of loneliness, but a peaceful stillness, the kind that tells you everything is finally where it should be.
Thomas and Milly emerged, halfasleep, looking at me with bewildered eyes.
Wheres Claire? Milly asked.
Shes gone, I replied simply.
They exchanged a glance, a mixture of relief and curiosity.
I walked over and embraced them both, tighter than Id managed in ages.
She wont be coming back, I said, feeling Millys head rest against my chest and Thomass tentative hand on my shoulder. Now things can be alright. I promise.
I have no idea what the future holds for us, but I know one thing: Im home, in my genuine home, with my real family. And no one will ever force me to pick between them again.
