**Diary Entry, 12th November**
I stumbled home from work just past midnight, utterly drained, starving, and furious. How many times had I sworn to quit that wretched shop? Midnight had already claimed its dark waltz outside our council flat when I finally dragged myself to the front door, fumbling with the key. Even the lock seemed to resist, as if reluctant to let this exhausted shadow of a woman back inside. “Drained” didnt cover itI was a broken machine, gears ground to dust, wires burned out. The hunger was sharp and nauseating, the anger like thick tar pooling inside me.
*How much longer?* The question throbbed in my temples. *Wheres the limit? When do I finally snap?* Id asked myself this every night for a year, ever since my life had turned into hell under the neon sign of *Vine & Spirit*.
I worked there from eight in the morning till eleven at nighta soul-crushing, relentless grind. The owner, a greedy spider of a man named Archibald Whitmore, had spun a web of CCTV cameras, his watchful gaze burning into my back like a hot iron. Sitting down? A privilege punished by fines. *”Sitting means youre not working!”* That motto was branded into every cashiers mind. By evening, my legs burned, swollen and pleading for mercy.
And those crates Heavy, clinking coffins of bottles we had to unload ourselves. Fifteen minutes for a measly break, then back to the front linesthe till, where customers ranged from drunks to rude, leering men to screeching women. I had to smile. Always smile, even when I wanted to scream or cry.
My coworkers called me the “iron lady,” unbreakable. Most quit within six months. Staff came and went like a river, slipping free of this hellish net. But I stayed. Because behind me wasnt just empty airthere was my seven-year-old son, Oliver. I needed the money, those grubby notes reeking of vodka and sweat, the only thread tethering us to a normal life. Where else could I go? Our once-bustling town was dying. The lumber mill and hydro plant, lifelines for thousands, now stood as grim monuments to a lost era, guarded only by dust and ghosts.
Stepping inside, I barely shrugged off my coat before hearing muffled voices from the kitchen. My heart clenchedtrained by years of expecting disaster. Then I remembered: Mum had mentioned Aunt Lydia was visiting.
Aunt Lydia. Mums older sister. From Manchester. A different world. I hadnt seen her in five years.
The kitchen smelled of fresh tea and homemade cake. The two sisters, grey-haired and lined with age, sat bathed in warm lamplight. And then that light found memy gaunt face, the dark circles under my eyes.
*”Oh, love!”* Aunt Lydia was the first to rise, her soft features and kind eyes radiating warmth. She hugged me, and for a moment, I remembered what safety felt like. They fed me, fussing like I was a child again.
Then Aunt Lydia set down her cup and looked at me squarely.
*”Veronica, sweetheart, how much longer? Look at yourself! Youre burning alive in that place. Leave it all. Come to Manchester. Its a big cityopportunities, decent work. And”* She paused. *”Life doesnt end at thirty. Youre young, beautiful. Maybe youll even find happiness again.”*
Her words sank into silence like stones into mud. Inside, I coiled into a knot of bitterness.
*”No, Auntie. Ive had enough,”* I rasped. *”Two tries at happiness. Two loud, bright failures. Thats it. But I promisenext month, Oliver and I will visit. A week. Ill take him to the circus, the theatre, the fair. Hes dreamed of it.”*
I kissed her cheek and, pleading exhaustion, slipped away. Oliver slept peacefully, his steady breaths the only calm in my storm. But sleep wouldnt come. Aunt Lydia had dredged up feelings Id buried long ago.
Memories clawed their way backimages Id tried to forget.
At eighteen, with top marks and dreams of becoming a doctor, Id moved to Manchester to study, living with Aunt Lydia. Medicine came easily; I thrived. Then, on a university trip to the Medical Museum, I met *Him*. Ethan. A final-year dental studentcharming, confident, perfect. He saw mea shy girl with a chestnut braid and summer-sky eyesand vanished into my life.
He was everything. Brilliant, polished, witty. A knight from a novel, sweeping me into a fairy tale. We married swiftly in a lavish ceremony. His parents, successful dentists, bought us a penthouse. At nineteen, I had Oliver. Left college.
Then things unraveled. Ethan stayed late. Disappeared for days. Always excuses. I believed himdesperately.
Until I saw him in a café, kissing a blonde.
The confrontation was brutal. He didnt apologize. *”Look at me,”* he scoffed. *”Successful men dont do monogamy. Its embarrassing. Be smartput up with it.”*
I did. For five humiliating years. Then I left. Returned to Mum with nothingthe penthouse? His parents. The car? Theirs. Aunt Lydia begged me to sue, but I was broken. The paltry child support was a joke.
*”So thats it?”* Mum had asked, staring at my hollowed-out face.
I got a job. At *Vine & Spirit*.
But youth betrayed me. My heart, scarred and stupid, still yearned for love. A year later, I met *Him*. The second one. Greg. A bar owner with a roguish grin and the stench of cheap perfume. *”This ones real,”* Id thought. *”Not like that posh fraud Ethan.”*
I was wrong. The honeymoon phase died fast. Greg came home drunk, reeking of other women. Fights. Tears. Two toxic years. Then, one night, watching Oliver sleep, I finally walked away.
No more love. No more men. Just work. Home. Oliver. And quiet, grey despair.
Aunt Lydias visit ripped open old wounds.
She left, but made me promise: summer in Manchester.
I kept that promise. Mum, Oliver, and I went. Aunt Lydia hosted a feast, beaming. Among the guests was a manmid-thirties, balding, kind eyes. *”Nicholas Peterson. Works at the town council. Single.”*
I tensed. A setup. But Nicholas was nice. Attentive. Brought my favourite irises. Listened. Not my typetoo plain compared to Ethans glamour or Gregs roughness. Still, he asked me out. To be polite, I agreed.
Over tea, he said quietly, *”Veronica, I know this is new. But I see youstrong, beautiful. Id love you and Oliver. Properly. Think about it.”*
Three days later, I did. *”Grand love burned me. Passion ruined me. Maybe quiet love?”*
I said yes. A small wedding. We moved into his cosy, book-filled flat.
And thenmiracles. Nicholas tracked Ethan down. Not with threats, but reason. He adopted Oliver. *”Were family now. One name.”*
He didnt cage me. He rented a shop, bought stock. *”Women should be independent,”* he said. *”It brings real happiness.”*
He was right. Within a year, I stood taller. Bought the shop. Opened two more.
Nicholas became my anchor. Proud of my success. A father to Oliver. Then, three years in, our daughterEmilywas born.
Seven years now. Quiet, steady, real happiness. No storms. No lies. Just respect. Gratitude. Lovenot a blazing fire, but warm, endless sunlight.
I finally understand: happiness isnt a flashy spark. Its the calm after the storm. And its worth every scar.
