**Diary Entry 8th November**
Sometimes love sweeps you off your feet, makes you forget everything elseexcept the person you adore. Thats what happened to me. I fell for Yvonne and lost my head, even forgot my conscience and my duty as a son. Choosing between comfort and doing right isnt easy.
“Chris, where will we live?” Yvonne would ask, batting her lashes.
“At mine, of course.”
“But you live with your mum,” shed pout.
“So what? Shes kind and quietyoull see,” Id reassure her.
I wasnt some lad. Past thirty, and this would be my second marriage. The first didnt workwe were too different. Shed miscalculated, thinking I earned well, pushing me to start a business. But without capital, nothing came of it. She leftthank God, no kids.
I met Yvonne in a pub after work, celebrating my mate Olivers newborn. A few pints in, I spotted hersad, alone.
“Cheer up, love,” I grinned, sliding into her booth. “Join usmy mates just had a son, nearly nine pounds!”
Yvonne didnt hesitate. “Congratulations,” she said, eyeing Oliver. “A sonthats proper.”
After, Oliver left, and I walked Yvonne to her flat near the textile factory where she worked. From some village up north, ten years younger. That night, I stayed over.
We dated, strolled through parks, and before I knew it, she steered me toward marriage.
“Chris, youre over thirtyno kids. Time to fix that,” shed laugh. Tired of her noisy flat-share, she wanted a proper home.
Head over heels, I proposed.
“Yes! When do we register?”
“Soon. But first, move in with Mum and me.”
“No, Chris. I wont live with your mum. Ive heard enough about mothers-in-law. Rent a place.”
“Love, my salary wont cover rent and living. Finewell sort it.”
Mum sat by the kitchen window, watching snowflakes drift. Retired maths teacher, health failingambulances had come more than once.
That evening, I brought Yvonne home. Theyd met before, but shed barely spoken to Mumjust a hello before vanishing into my room, laughter trailing. Shed leave without a goodbye.
“Mum Yvonne and I are getting married. She doesnt want you here. I found a care homegood one, medics on hand. You understand, yeah? Need our own space.”
The worlds cruel sometimes. You can brush off ageing parentscare homes exist. Forget the ones who sat up nights, gave their last penny, believed in you. I didnt think of that.
“I understand, son.” Her voice cracked.
She packed her few things into an old suitcase, and I took her to the care home, outside London.
Her life narrowed to that tiny room, always at the window. On the nightstanda worn photo of me, all she had left.
She hopedsomehowId come back. Widowed at thirty-six, shed raised me alone. Worked two jobs so Id want for nothing.
“Chris,” shed whisper to the photo, crying.
Time passed. I never visited.
With Yvonne, life was a laughuntil it wasnt. Six months in, shed come home tipsy, staying out late.
“Whereve you been?”
“Out with the girlsVeronicas birthday.”
“I married you for a wife, not a pub crawl.”
“Dont lecture me. Youre not starvingyou can cook.” Shed laugh, stumbling to bed.
A year later, we divorced. Then I remembered.
“God, this is my punishment sent Mum away and never checked on her.”
One day, you hear your conscience. I felt it.
Mum sat by her window, grey sky outside, when the door creaked open.
“Mum”
She turnedcouldnt believe it. Me, gaunt, shadows under my eyes.
“Chris! Are you ill?”
“Mum, forgive me I was a wretch.” My voice broke. “Yvonne she wasnt the one. Others, always just friends. Stopped working, stayed out left me for someone else.”
Mum listened, stroking my hair.
“I abandoned you for her forgive me.”
“Its alright. You came backthats what matters.”
“Pack up. Youre coming home.”
Back in the flatstill faint with perfumewe lived just us two. I tried making it up to her.
“Mum, looknew blanket. Youll need it.” Next week, a warm jumper, then an orthopedic pillow.
“Son, dont waste your money.”
“I want you comfortable. You lived for meI see that now. Got a better job toowell get a bigger place, your own room.”
“Im glad. But you should marry againnot live for me.”
“Alright. Meet Veronicaweve been seeing each other.”
Next evening, I brought her home.
“Hello, Mrs. Carter,” Veronica said warmly, grey eyes kind. “Apple pieI baked it for you.”
“Oh, love, you shouldnt have!”
“Was no trouble.”
After I walked her out, Mum asked, “Does she mind me living with you?”
“Are you joking? When I told her about the care home, she near tore me apart. Shamed me properbut I had to say it.”
For the first time in ages, Mums heart warmed. Not all people were lost.
Soon, evenings were apple or cherry pie, tea, the three of ushappy. If Mum dozed off, Veronica tucked a blanket over her.
“Thank you, love,” Mumd murmur.
I finally knew real happinesshome isnt walls, but who waits for you.
One dinner, Veronica beamed.
“Mum, Chris Im expecting.”
Mum wept. “Oh, Ive waited so long!”
I was stunnedthen leapt up, hugging her.
“Veronica, youre brilliant!”
“So are you,” she laughed.
That night, I lay awake.
“How good it isnever too late to mend things. While Mums here, I can make it right.”
Time passed. Veronica gave Mum a grandson, me a son. Our flat rang with childish laughter. Two years on, we movedbigger, brighter, a nursery and Mums own room.
Never too late to come home.
