**Diary Entry**
The morning caught us on a dusty road leading out of the village. In one hand, I held little Sophies tiny fingers, in the othera light suitcase packed not so much with belongings as with shattered hopes. The bus groaned as it pulled away from the stop, carrying us further from the place where, just hours before, I had still believed in something. I left without even saying goodbye to Mark. He was out fishing at dawn, the same dawn he had spoken of so excitedly the night before. Through the grimy window, watching the fields rush past, I realised a simple, bitter truth: I had never met a man worth fighting for. And yet, it had all begun so beautifully, so blindingly romantic it took my breath away.
Mark stormed into my life during his final year at university. He wouldnt leave me alone, showering me with compliments, gazing with lovesick eyes that melted my doubts. He swore he couldnt imagine life without me or my four-year-old Sophie. His persistence, his boyish sincerity, thawed the ice around my heartstill fragile after losing my first husband. Within three months, he moved into my flat, full of plans and promises.
“Ally, love,” his eyes shone like deep lakes, “once I graduate, well visit my village. Ill introduce you to my parents, my whole family! Ill tell them youre my future wife! Youll come, wont you?” He held me, and the world seemed simple.
“Alright,” Id agreed, a timid hope flickering inside. He spoke so often of his motherkind, hospitable, the heart of their home. I believed him. I *wanted* to believe.
The village where Mark grew up met us with a quiet evening glow. His family all lived close, practically shoulder to shoulder. What I didnt know then was that just down the lane lived Emily, the local beauty, secretly in love with Mark since childhoodeveryones idea of the perfect bride. Nor did I know about Granddad Thomas, Marks grandfather, who still visited for a bath since his own had fallen into disrepair. Hed spent his days in quiet reflection, often gazing at the hill where his wife rested. That evening, hed known guests were cominghis grandson was bringing his fiancée.
The night before, Granddad Thomas had dropped by and found his daughter-in-law, Helen, in a foul mood.
“You and Steven arguing again?” hed asked, bracing for another lecture.
But Helen had snapped first. “Did you know our Marks getting married? Bringing his city girl tomorrow.”
“Steven mentioned it. Good for himfinished uni, got a job. Time to settle down,” Granddad had said philosophically.
Helens lips twisted. “His *choice*, though. Three years older, with a child! As if there arent plenty of decent village girlsEmily, for one! Pretty, hardworking, a nurse! And this one? Who even knows where her childs from? Why saddle himself with another mans burden?”
“Leave the lad to his choices,” Granddad had tried, but Helen was already spiralling, nursing her resentment.
By the time we arrived, weary but hopeful, Helens plan was set. No warm welcome. No feast. Let this city girl know she wasnt wanted.
Mark burst in first, radiant with happiness. Sophie and I lingered at the threshold.
“My boy! My Mark!” Helen hugged him fiercely, her gaze sliding over me like frost. “Our graduate! Finally home!” The emphasis on *our* said everything.
Then, saccharine-sweet: “So this is Ally? With the *child*?” Her eyes raked me up and down.
Mark, oblivious, took my hand, leading me inside. His father, Stevenblunt but warmand Granddad Thomas hugged us all with genuine joy.
Helens table was bare. Mark frownedhe knew what his mother was capable of. I ate nothing, a bitter lump in my throat. Why hadnt he introduced me properly? Why let her snub us?
Steven poured homemade wine, but Helen cut in: “A toast to our Mark! To his degree, his future!”
Every toast was for him. As if Sophie and I were ghosts. Mark laughed, chatted, said *nothing* in our defence.
Later, in the cramped spare room, I lay beside Sophie, silent tears soaking the pillow. *Where was the kind woman hed promised? Why wont he see this?*
At breakfast, Helen sighed theatrically. “Well, Mark, no more carefree days. Now youll have to work hardfeed a family.” Her eyes flicked to Sophie. The unspoken *someone elses child* hung in the air.
Mark just grinned, clueless. Steven slammed his fist on the table. “Helen!”
But my patience had run dry.
As we left for a walk, I spilled my hurthis mothers cruelty, his silence. He brushed it off. “Youre overreacting. Shes just protective.”
The next morning, he was gone before dawnfishing.
Helen cornered me in the hall. “Mark says youre leaving. Because of *you*, Ill hardly see him now!”
I met her eyes, calm as ice. “My first husband was an officer. Honest, strong. He loved me more than life. Unlike your son, he proved itnot with words, but actions. His mother still treats me like a daughter. She bought my flat, set up a trust for Sophie. I speak three languages, run two businesses. Your son *dreams* of my salary. So no, Helen, Mark wont be feeding us.”
Her shock was palpable.
“I should thank you,” I said softly. “You showed me the truth. I dont need a mother-in-law who sees me as a threat. Or a man who wont defend his family.”
I packed quietly, woke Sophie, and left without a backward glance.
On the bus, I closed my eyes. Ahead lay the road hometo a life where love wouldnt demand my silence. Because Id learned my worth. And *that* was everything.
