12April2025 Diary
The smell of damp earth after a drizzle was the only thing that kept me tethered to the present. It has been two months since my son, Andrew, simply fell dead, leaving a hush so dense it seemed to fill every corner of our cottage in Kent.
Eleanor, his wife, glides through the rooms like a wraithcomposed, chilly, and oddly detached. Even in those first agonising days of mourning she never shed a tear, never let a crack appear in her immaculate façade.
A week after the funeral I received a call from Andrews solicitor. The conversation still rings in my ears as clearly as if it had just happened.
Mr. Wilson, the solicitor said, adjusting his spectacles, your sons will is very clear. He left you the family home and the flat in London he bought last year. The remainder of his estate including his bank accounts also pass to your name.
I stared, stunned. And Eleanor?
For her, he replied, he left only the lifeinsurance policy. No property, no accounts. Its a final, legal decision.
I sat there, heart racing. Andrew had always been thorough, deliberate in everything he did. If he chose to shut his wife out of almost everything, there must have been a reason deeper than I could yet grasp.
So I kept my mouth shut. Out of loyalty. Out of love. Out of that quiet voice that told me he must have known something I did not.
Two months later, on a grey morning, I descended the stairs and stopped dead.
There, in the sittingroom, Eleanor was curled in the arms of another man. He was tall, broadshouldered, and selfassured. Eleanor, smiling without an ounce of shame, turned to me as if nothing were amiss.
Ah, perfect timing, George, she said smoothly, slipping her hand into his. This is James my partner.
My pulse hammered in my ears. Eleanor its far too soon, I whispered, barely believing my own eyes.
Too soon? Eleanor laughed, crossing her arms. Please. Youre so oldfashioned. James and I have decided its time for a change. This house feels stale. We need space, you understand? So, if youd be so kindpack your things. Find somewhere else to stay.
I stood rooted, the air growing thicker between us. Then something that had lay dormant for weeks stirred awake inside me.
My dear, I said quietly, slipping my hand into my coat pocket, I think youre the one who should be packing.
I set a thick envelope on the coffee table. The papers inside landed with a crisp, deliberate thud.
This house is not yours, Eleanor. It never was after Andrew died.
She frowned, confusion flickering across her face. What are you talking about, George?
I met her gaze, steady and unflinching. Andrew left everything to methe cottage, the London flat, the accounts. You only have the insurance, and thats all. I kept quiet because I trusted my sons reasons. Now, I continued, voice firm, I see exactly why.
The colour drained from Eleanors cheeks. James shifted uneasily beside her, eyes flicking toward the door as if already halfway out.
You have twentyfour hours to remove your belongings, I said, tone almost gentle. If you dont, my solicitor will serve a trespass notice. I want my son to rest in peaceand peace does not share a roof with deception.
I lifted my phone without hesitation. Mr. Hughes? Its George Wilson. Please prepare the eviction notice. Ill sign it first thing tomorrow.
Eleanors bravado melted into panic. James muttered something under his breath and stepped back, realizing the new home he had imagined was disappearing before it even began.
I sank into the armchair by the window, the late sunlight spilling across my face. The cottage is mine againand, more importantly, justice has been served. My silence had been an act of love; my words now an act of truth.
For the first time in months I could almost hear Andrews voicecalm, grateful, at peace.
Lesson learned: grief does not give licence to betray the memory of those we love; standing up for what is right, even when it hurts, is the truest honour we can give them.
