**Diary Entry**
I stumbled back from work close to midnight, utterly shatteredhungry, furious, and drained. How many times had I sworn to quit that wretched shop? The dead of night had already swallowed the street outside our cramped flat when Veronica, dragging her feet like a ghost, fumbled the key into the lock. Even the metal seemed to resist, unwilling to let this hollowed-out version of a woman back inside. “Shattered” didnt begin to cover itI felt like a broken machine, gears ground to dust, wires burnt out. The hunger was sharp and gnawing; the anger, thick as tar, coated my insides.
*How much longer?* The question pounded in my temples. *Wheres the limit? When do I finally snap?* Id asked myself this nightly for a yearever since my life turned into hell under the neon sign of *VinoWorld*.
Veronica worked there, that cursed shopan aquarium of alcohol and human flawsfrom 8 AM till 11 PM. A relentless, soul-crushing grind. The owner, a greedy spider named Archibald Phelps, had spun his web of CCTV cameras, and every glance through the lens seared my back like a brand. Sitting down? A privilege punished with a hefty fine. *”If youre sitting, youre not working!”* That motto was scorched into every cashiers mind. By evening, my feet burned, swollen and pleading for mercy.
And those crates Heavy, clinking coffins of bottles wethe womenhad to unload ourselves. Fifteen minutes to scarf down food, then back to the frontline: the counter, where customers ranged from impatient to outright vile. Always smiling. Smiling at drunks, at leering blokes, at screeching women. Smiling when all I wanted was to scream.
Colleagues called Veronica the “Iron Lady,” unbreakable. Most quit within six months. Staff came and went like a river, slipping free of this hellish net. But Veronica stayed. Because behind her wasnt just empty airit was the entire meaning of her life: her seven-year-old son, Steven. She needed the money. Those grubby, booze-stained notes were the only thread tethering them to something resembling normalcy. Where else could she go? Their once-bustling industrial town was dying. The lumberyard and factory, lifelines for thousands, stood as gloomy monuments to a dead era, guarded only by ghosts and dust.
—
Crossing the threshold, Veronica barely shrugged off her coat before freezingmuffled voices from the kitchen. Her heart clenched, trained by years of expecting disaster. Then memory nudged her: *Aunt Irenes coming today.*
Aunt Irene. Mums older sister. From Manchester. A different world. Itd been five years.
The kitchen smelled of fresh tea and homemade pie. The sisters, silver-streaked and lined with age, sat under the warm glow of the lampshade. Light fell on Veronicaher gaunt face, the shadows under her eyes.
“Sweetheart!” Aunt Irene, soft-featured and bright-eyed, was the first to rise. “Look at you, worn to the bone!”
She hugged her niece, and for a moment, Veronica felt something long-forgotten: safety. Childhood warmth. They fed her, fussing, until she was full.
Then Aunt Irene set down her cup and met Veronicas gaze, blunt as family gets:
“Veronica, love, how much more can you take? Youre burning alive in that place. Leave. Come to Manchester. Its a proper cityopportunities, decent work. And” A pause. “Life isnt over. Youre only thirty. Young, beautiful. Who knows? You might even find happiness.”
The words sank into silence like stones into mud. Inside, Veronica coiled into a knot of bitter experience.
“No, Auntie. Enough.” Her voice was hoarse. “Ive had two tries at happiness. Both loud, bright, and bothfailures. But I promise, in two months, Steven and I will visit. A week. Well do the zoo, the theatre, the fair. Hed love that.”
She kissed her aunts cheek and retreated, pleading exhaustion. Steven slept peacefully, his steady breath the only calm in the storm. But Veronica, despite her fatigue, lay awake. The visit had dredged up old feelings, and her mind, like a cruel demon, began unpacking memories shed buried years ago.
—
At eighteen, gold medal in hand and dreams of becoming a doctor, shed moved to Manchester to study, living with Aunt Irene. Medicine came easily; she thrived. Then, on a college trip to the medical museum, her heart racednot from cadavers, but from *him*. Arthur. A final-year dentistry student, all charm and confidence. Hed spotted herthe quiet girl with chestnut plaits and summer-sky eyesand vanished into her life.
He was perfect. Brilliant, sharp-suited, witty. A knight from the pages of novels, sweeping her into a fairy tale. They dated barely a month before he proposed, introducing her to his parentssuccessful dentists with their own clinic. The wedding was lavish. Her side? Just Mum, Aunt Irene, their son, and one college friend.
They bought a luxury flat in the city centre, furnished it impeccably. Arthur graduated, joined the family business. The money piled up. Cars got flashier. At nineteen, Veronica had Steven. College was abandoned.
Then things shifted. Arthur stayed late. Then vanished for days. Always with ironclad excuses. She believeddesperately, hysterically.
Until the day she pushed Stevens pram into a café for water and saw him. Her knight. Cozied up with a slender blonde, gazing at her with the same adoration hed once reserved for Veronica. Then he kissed hertender, passionate.
The confrontation at home was brutal. He didnt apologise; he *explained*.
“Veronica, look at me!” he scoffed. “Im successful. Everyone in our circle has mistresses. Being faithful? Its a joke. Youre cleveryoull cope.”
And she did. Five humiliating years. Too ashamed to return to Mum broken. Waiting for the mask to slip, for the Arthur from the museum to return.
But every rope has an end.
She left. Took Steven and her meagre belongings back to Mum. Their flat? Signed to his mother. The car? His fathers. Aunt Irene begged her to sue, but Veronica was too hollow. Arthurs accountants showed laughable earningschild support was pitiful.
“So thats it?” Mum asked, staring at her daughter, aged a decade in half the time.
With Steven in nursery, Veronica took the job at *VinoWorld*.
Yet youth clawed back. Her heart, battered but stubborn, still ached for love. A year later, she met *him*. The second. Gregory. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a rogues grin. Owned a bar he grandly called a “bistro.” Smelled of expensive tobacco, booze, and easy money.
*This ones real*, naïve Veronica thought. *Not like that fake aristocrat Arthur. This time, Ive got it right.*
She hadnt. The rose-tinted glasses shattered fast. Gregory stumbled home nightly, reeking of cheap perfume and other women. Fights. Broken plates. Tears. Two toxic years of breakups and empty promises.
Then, watching Steven sleep after another of Gregorys benders, she knew: *Enough.*
She left again. Disillusioned with love, men, herself. Work. Home. Steven. Grey hopelessness. And now Aunt Irenes talk of fresh starts had ripped open half-healed wounds.
—
The aunt left but extracted a promise: summer, with Steven.
Veronica kept her word. That summer, the three of themher, Mum, Stevenwent to Manchester. Aunt Irene threw a feast, glowing.
At the table sat her son, his wife, and another guest. A man in his mid-thirties, stocky, with kind eyes and a bald head he made no effort to hide. “Nicholas Peters,” Aunt Irene introduced. “Works at the council. Single, by the way.”
Veronica understood. Auntie was matchmaking. She braced for resistance.
But Nicholas was nice. Attentive. Poured her tea, told clever jokes. But not her type. Compared to Arthurs ghost or Gregorys brute charm, he seemed plain. Earthbound.
Still, when he asked her to coffee the next day, politeness won.
It went surprisingly well. He brought irisesher favourite (howd he know?). Listened. Joked without showing off. Walking her home, he stopped, meeting her eyes:
“Veronica, I know this is new. But Ive met many people. Youre extraordinary. Strong. Beautiful. I wont promise storms or passion. But I can love youand Steventruly. Think about it.”
Three days to decide. Walking home, she mused: *Grand passion burned me. Twice. Maybe quiet love?*
She said yes. A month later, a small wedding
