28October2025
Dear Diary,
The new wife of my late wife has cleared out all of Margarets belongings while I was at the officeshe did it in one swift sweep, as if shed never heard of sentiment.
Emily, are you even listening to me? I asked when youll turn in the report! I called out.
Sorry, Claire, she replied, snapping back to the task. Itll be ready by Friday.
Friday? Its already Thursday, Claire retorted, shaking her head. Youve been absent a lot lately. Is it because of that Lucy again?
Emily clenched her fists under the desk. Just hearing the name of my new wife made a lump rise in her throat.
I dont want to talk about it, she muttered.
Then you should, I nudged my chair closer. You need to have a serious talk with me. Ive lost my head. I married her just six months after Margarets funeral!
Eight months, Emily corrected automatically. Im an adult; I know what Im doing.
Thats exactly why you dont, Claire said. Men your age are fragile. Lucy is much younger; shes probably eyeing our flat for herself.
Emily wanted to argue, but deep down she knew Claire was right. Lucy was eighteen years younger than me. We met in the community health centre where she worked as a nurse. Back then I was still taking Margaret to her appointments.
I must be off, Emily said, gathering her papers. We agreed I could leave early today.
Go, but promise youll call if anything comes up, any time, Claire replied.
Emily nodded and stepped out into a fine drizzle that had settled over London. She pulled up her coat collar and briskly walked to the bus stop. The commute home took about twenty minutes, then a fiveminute walk. She had been living with us in a twobedroom flat on the third floor of a ninestorey council block. After Margarets death shed thought of moving out, but her salary wouldnt stretch to the skyhigh rents in the city.
Id begged her to stay.
Emily, dont leave me alone, Id said. Im as helpless without Margaret as a man without hands. I need you here.
So she stayedcooking, cleaning, doing the laundrytrying to fill the void Margaret left. Then Lucy arrived.
At first I mentioned a nice nurse in passing. Soon I started taking longer walks, and six months later I announced I was getting married again.
Sweetheart, I cant do this alone. I need a woman by my side. Margaret would understand.
Emily didnt argue; she simply slipped out of the room, locked herself in, and wept into her pillow until dawn.
The wedding was a quiet affairno fanfare, no invitations for Emily. She learned about it only when I brought Lucy home, passport stamped.
Emily, meet my wife, I said.
Lucy was tall, dyed blond, wearing bright lipstick and long polished nails. She could have been thirtyfive, though I told her she was fortytwo.
Hello, Emily, she extended a hand. Hope well get along.
Emily shook her cold fingers and drifted into the kitchen, where Margarets favourite rosepatterned mug sat on a shelf. She filled it with water, hands trembling.
At first Lucy behaved cautiouslysmiling, asking about work, offering help. Emily replied curtly, keeping her distance. She couldnt forgive my haste. Margaret had died only months before, and I had already brought another woman into the flat.
Gradually Lucy settled in, rearranged the bedroom, changed the curtains in the living room, bought a new set of dishes, and pushed Margarets things into the back of the wardrobe.
Your mother had good taste, she remarked, but its all old now. We need a fresh look.
Emily said nothing. The flat was technically my property; she was just a tenant.
A month later Lucy began dropping hints.
Emily, youre thirtythree now. Its time you think about your own life. Living with us you know what I mean.
This is my home, Emily snapped.
Its my husbands home, Lucy corrected gently, and now its mine as well.
I stayed silent, as if deaf and blind, walking around with a blissful smile, constantly hugging Lucy around the waist, calling her pet names. Emily no longer recognised me. Where was the steady, reserved man who had spent thirty years loving Margaret?
After getting off the bus, Emily quickened her pace, eager to shed the damp coat, sip a hot tea, perhaps find my father absent as promised. She thought of Margaret constantlyher pies with cabbage, evening storytimes, the gentle rub of her hand on Emilys head, the reassurance that everything would be alright, even in the worst of illnesses.
Dont be sad, love. Im always with you, Margarets voice seemed to whisper.
Emily unlocked the flat, the silence inside pressing against her ears. She slipped off her wet shoes, hung her coat, and entered her bedroom.
The room looked different. The bed, the wardrobe, the desk by the window were all where they had always been, but the familiar chest that once held Margarets trinkets was gone. The embroidered napkin, the photo framesnothing remained.
She flung open the wardrobe doors. On the top shelf used to sit Margarets blue shawl, the one my father had given her on our anniversary. It was nowhere to be seen.
No, no, no she whispered, hands shaking as she rummaged through the remaining items. The coat, the books she had treasured, the photo albumall vanished.
She rushed into the master bedroom, only to find it emptied as wellMargarets perfume, her hairbrush, her cosmetics gone.
What is happening? she murmured.
The flats front door opened, voices drifting in.
finally rid ourselves of that clutter, Lucy said. I dont see why we should keep the deads stuff. Its an unhealthy attachment.
Youre right, dear, I replied. We need to move on.
Emily stepped into the hallway, stunned. Lucy and I stood by a coat rack, removing outerwear. Seeing her, Lucy smiled.
Emily, youre back. We were just tidying up while you were out.
Where are Mums things? Emily asked, her voice hoarse.
What things? Lucy replied casually.
All of them! The chest, the photos, the books! Where are they?
Lucy sighed, as if it were a trivial matter.
I took them to the church, threw away what I could. Emily, its been over a year since Margaret passed. Its time to let go.
You what did you do?! Emily shouted, feeling the floor drop out from under her.
I stood mute, watching my daughters anguish.
Dad, did you hear what she said? She threw Mums things away!
Emily, dont scream, I finally managed. Lucy is right. You cant live in the past. Its an unhealthy attachment.
Unhealthy attachment? Thats my mothers memory! Its all I have left!
Your memories remain, Lucy said softly. Isnt that enough?
Not enough, Emily replied firmly. I need the objects.
Return them now.
Im afraid thats impossible. The container has already been taken away.
What container?
The rubbish bin, Lucy shrugged. It was full of old junktattered dresses, yellowed papers. I kept only a few photos, which are still in the wardrobe.
Emily approached, but Lucy stepped back.
You had no right, Emily whispered.
Im the lady of the house now. I decide what stays and what goes.
Not the lady! Youre a stranger! Emilys voice cracked.
Emily! I raised my voice for the first time. Apologise to Lucy. Shes my wife, you must respect her.
Respect the woman who threw away everything that reminded me of my mother?
My wife is dead, Emily. Accept it.
She lunged at me, tears welling.
I loved Mum. She gave birth to you. She
Enough, I cut her off, waving my hand. Im tired of this. Im tired of your constant hints, your silence, the way you stare at Lucy. I have a right to be happy.
By erasing Mums memory?
Memories arent the problem. I love Lucy. I want to live with her. If you cant accept that
Her mouth fell open.
Fine, Emily said quietly. Ill leave.
Emily, wait, Lucy intervened. No ones kicking you out. Just set some ground rules. This is my husbands house and mine too. You can stay if you respect our boundaries.
What boundaries? Emily asked, exhausted.
No entering our bedroom, no touching my things, no turning the flat into a museum of Mum.
I avoided her gaze.
Alright, she said. As you wish.
She retreated to her room, closed the door, and collapsed onto the bed, hugging her head. The tears that had been held back finally broke loose, a cold, consuming emptiness filling her.
The next morning the streets were grey, a few pedestrians hurrying home under umbrellas. Emily thought of the cardboard bin on the refuse tip where Mums things now lay, mixed with rubbish.
A knock sounded on the flats door.
Emily, may I come in? my voice called.
She didnt answer. The door opened a crack and I stepped inside.
Lets talk, I said.
What about? she asked without turning.
Lucy only wants whats best. She wants to make the house cosy.
By discarding everything that reminded me of Mum?
I sighed.
Emily, I know its hard. It was hard for me too. But life goes on. I met Lucy and she gave me a chance to feel alive again. Is that wrong?
Have you forgotten Mum?
No, I remember Margaret every day. She wont return, but I cant spend the rest of my life in mourning.
She stared at me, older now, his shoulders hunched, sixtyfive but still holding onto a sliver of youth thanks to Lucys company.
Dad, Im not against your happiness. But why destroy Mums memory?
Lucy didnt destroy it. She cleared away what held us back.
Thats what youre saying, that she held us back.
Emily, please give us a chance. Let Lucy show she can be good.
Good people dont throw away a womans belongings without asking.
I shook my head.
Youre as stubborn as Margaret was.
He left, closing the door softly. I opened the wardrobe again and found three photographs tucked in a clear bag: Margaret on our wedding day, Margaret cradling a baby Emily, Margaret laughing on the summer cottage in a straw hat.
I dialled Claire.
Claire, can I stay over tonight?
Whats happened? she asked, alarmed.
Ill explain when I get there. Can I?
Of course, come straight away.
I packed a bag, the three photos, a spare set of clothes, and a small makeup case, and left the flat.
Claires flat was warm, smelling of fresh scones. A plump orange tabby curled on the sofa.
Quick, get out of that coat, Claire said, handing me a towel. Tell me everything.
I recounted the whole ordeal. She listened, her face growing pale.
Shes gone mad? she exclaimed. How can anyone just toss a mothers things?
She thinks shes the lady of the house, I said. Dad backed her up, saying I should let go.
She muttered under her breath.
Maybe not everythings gone. When did they take the bin out?
About midday today, Lucy had said.
Did you call the refuse centre?
I shook my head.
Lets try, Claire said, dialing the housing office. After a long wait she finally spoke to someone.
Yes, the containers on Oxford Street have been emptied. Theyre taken to the landfill. Finding anything specific now is impossible.
Claire sighed.
It doesnt matter. You still have the memories. No thing can replace that.
I need to feel something of Mums, I whispered.
She squeezed my shoulder.
Lets sit. Youll get through this.
We sat until night fell, then she made me a simple dinner. I ate halfheartedly, my mind looping over the days events.
That night I could barely sleep on the pullout sofa. The tabby padded over and purred, trying to soothe me.
Morning came, Claire left for work, reminding me, Ill be back this evening. Try not to think about it.
The phone rang a few times that day. My fathers number. I let it go to voicemail.
Later, a message popped up from Lucy:
Emily, can we meet and talk? I didnt mean to hurt you. Lets sort things out.
I hesitated, then replied, Where?
Coffee shop near the old bakery on Maple Road.
Sixpm then.
I arrived early, watched Lucy already at a corner table, stirring her coffee. She gave a tentative smile.
Thanks for coming.
I sat, saying nothing. The waitress approached, but I declined.
I wont stay long, I warned.
Lucy sipped, then set the cup down.
I know youre angry. I married your father and moved into a home already filled with someone elses life. I felt like a stranger in my own house because of all the pictures, the clothes, even the scent of her perfume.
This isnt my house, I said evenly. Youre just living here.
Im your fathers wife. By law its my home too.
Is it about the flat?
No! Its about respect. I want you to see me as a partner, not as a replacement for Margaret.
He married you after he still looked at Margarets portrait every day. The wardrobe still holds her dresses. He still sees her in every corner.
Lucys eyes softened.
I never meant to erase her, she said. I just wanted space to breathe.
Its not about space, I replied. Its about losing the last tangible link to my mother.
She reached for my hand.
Im sorry, Emily. I didnt think. Ill make it right where I can. I kept a few photos, the most important ones.
She produced a small envelope. Inside were three printed photos: Margaret on our wedding day, Margaret cradling a baby Emily, Margaret laughing on the cottage.
Those are all? she asked.
Yes, I said, my voice barely a whisper.
We cant get the rest back, Lucy admitted, but Ill respect whatever you need.
I stood, feeling the weight lift a fraction.
Thank you, I said. Lets try to move forward.
We left the shop together.
Back at the flat, I found my father in the kitchen, a kettle whistling.
Emily, Im glad youre home, he said, eyes softening. Im sorry for letting Lucy clear out Mums things. I kept a box hidden for you.
He handed me a small wooden crate. Inside lay Mums amber necklace, her favourite butterfly brooch, her journal, and a few letters.
Dad, I whispered, clutching the box to my chest. Tears finally fell, the dam broken. He embraced me, and we sat in silence until the kettle cooled.
Later, Lucy slipped into my room.
May I? she asked.
Come in, I replied, still holding the box.
She noticed the brooch.
Thats your mothers? she asked.
Yes.
Its beautiful, she said, genuine now. I never wanted to hurt you. I just didnt think.
We talked, and for the first time I felt a sliver of understanding.
The days that followed were uneven. I returned to work, came home, and tried not to notice Lucys presence too sharply. Lucy kept her distance, my father seemed happier.
Sometimes, in the evenings, I open the box, run my fingers over the necklace, and hear Mums voice in my head, reassuring me that everything will be alright.
Memories do not die with objects; they linger in the heart.
Today I learned that grief can coexist with new beginnings, and that love, in its many forms, can heal even the deepest wounds.
