**A Diary Entry: The Weight of Family**
“Emily was just a practice run,” declared my former husband’s mother.
This story isn’t fiction or some dramatic scene from a telly show. It’s my life—harsh, messy, but painfully real.
When our daughter Emily was barely six months old, her father, William, vanished from our lives. As it turned out, there was already another woman. No warning, no explanation—he simply walked out one day and never came back. I was left alone in the flat we’d shared, a tiny baby in my arms. At least he let us keep the roof over our heads—small mercies. But not a single penny in child support, no birthday calls, not even a present for Emily. He became a stranger. Later, I learned he’d fathered three more children with the woman he left me for.
Once, swallowing my pride, I asked if he could at least help with Emily’s school expenses. His reply was ice-cold:
*“I’ve got three mouths to feed already.”*
No parents, no relatives—I carried it all alone. I worked odd jobs while Emily slept, cried where she couldn’t see me. Even my former mother-in-law, Margaret, kept her distance. Then, one day, she dropped a bombshell that knocked the wind from me.
*“Honestly,”* she scoffed, *“did you really think Emily was forever? William was just testing the waters with her. The first pancake always comes out wrong. His real family—his proper children—are the ones he’s with now.”*
To this day, I don’t understand her cruelty. When Emily was born, Margaret brought flowers to the hospital, promising to be there. Where did that woman go?
Years later, when Emily was in Year Seven, disaster struck—I needed emergency surgery. Two weeks in hospital, and I couldn’t leave my girl alone. Swallowing my pride again, I begged Margaret: just keep an eye on her. Not much—just meals and safety.
Her response?
*“Fine, she can stay. But it’s not free. And bring a note saying she’s healthy—my other grandkids visit often, and I won’t have her spreading anything.”*
I thanked her stiffly and fled, barely holding back tears until I reached the street. There, on a park bench, I sobbed until our neighbour—Mrs. Evelyn Archer, a quiet, respected widow—sat beside me. Without meaning to, everything spilled out: William, Margaret, the surgery. She listened in silence, then said:
*“Let Emily stay with me. She’ll be safe. Put your money away—consider me family.”*
I could hardly thank her enough.
The surgery went well. Three weeks later, I came home to warmth—Evelyn had set the table, Emily glowing as she chattered about baking cakes, reading books, and all the things they’d done together. It was real. It was home.
Now, Evelyn’s become the grandmother Emily never had—loving, present, *true*. She even jokes about finding me a *proper* man, someone who’ll love me the way I deserve.
Me? I’m still uncertain. But one thing’s clear: better a stranger with kindness than blood that leaves you cold.
