**Diary Entry A Mothers Choice**
Oliver was firm this time. «Lily, chooseeither me or your parents.» His voice held no room for negotiation.
I sighed. «You know Id follow you to the ends of the earth. But dont shut them out. Theyre getting oldhave some mercy.»
«I want nothing to do with them. Visit if you must, since youre such a devoted daughter,» he shot back, his tone sharp with disapproval.
—
My first marriage was to a man who had served in Afghanistan. Simon seemed brave, unshakablea decorated major, a hardened soldier. Our son, Oliver Jr., was born, and my parents adored him and Simon.
«Youre in good hands now, Lily,» Dad would say. «We can rest easy knowing hell take care of you.»
But Simon had no time for our boy. Oliver Jr. would reach for him, only to be met with fishing trips, veterans’ meetings, or dark moods. Eventually, my son stopped trying.
Then the depression took hold. Simon would drink himself senseless, slip into his uniform, and onceGod help mehe threatened Oliver Jr. with his service pistol. That was the end. I couldnt risk my sons life, or my own. We divorced quietly.
My parents were furious. «Youve thrown away a good man! Where will you find another like him?»
As it turned out, I didnt need to. Simon remarried years latera deaf woman, someone who couldnt hear his demons.
—
Oliver came into my life quickly. I travelled often for work, drafting contracts in small villages, and thats where I met hima charming, well-spoken man with an easy smile. Our professional disagreements led to dinner, then more.
«Lily, let me take you home,» he murmured, kissing my hand.
Oliver Jr. was with my parents. Why not indulge?
One thing led to another. Passion, loveit all blurred together. Oliver was six years younger, divorced with a seven-year-old daughter.
My parents would hate him. Too young, too brash»green as spring grass,» as Mum would say. But I didnt care. I loved him fiercely.
«Dad, MumIm getting married,» I told them. Oliver and I invited them to dinner.
Their faces froze. «Youre joking. We thought youd patch things up with Simon!»
«Forget Simon. He forgot Oliver Jr. long ago. Meet my fiancé tomorrowand dont mention my ex.»
The dinner was tense. Oliver charmed them with gifts and promises: a big house, a family under one roof.
«Where will we live?» Dad asked suspiciously.
«Ill build us a home,» Oliver said with a grin.
We married in a whirlwindhoneymoon on the Mediterranean, dreams of European tours with both children. Oliver embraced my son as his own, but his daughter, Emily, was another matter. Cold stares, whispered secrets.
—
Three years later, we moved into the new housethree floors, sprawling gardens, every comfort for my ageing parents. Their bedroom and kitchen were downstairs; Oliver Jr.s room at the top («Let the lad burn energy,» Oliver joked).
The gifts kept cominga motorbike for Oliver Jr.s twentieth, a new car for me, a spa retreat for Mum, a fishing boat for Dad. Yet they remained ungrateful, forever comparing Oliver to Simon.
«Lily, I want peace,» Oliver said once, weary. «Let them whisper. I provide. I respect them. What more do they want?»
But they never softened.
—
Then Oliver Jr. brought home a girl.
«This is Grace. Shes moving in,» he announced.
I frowned. «Wife? Fiancée?»
He ignored me, pulling her upstairs.
Fine. He was grown. Let her parents worry about her virtue.
But Grace was bold.
«Lily, we want the second floor. Were having a baby.» She lounged at my kitchen table, smoking, sipping my coffee.
She called us by our first namesno respect.
«Grace, this is *my* home. If you dont like it, leave.»
«Mums kicking me out!» she shrieked.
Oliver Jr. shoved mehard. My head hit the table. I woke in hospital, concussed, heartbroken.
Oliver was livid. «Im calling the police.»
«No,» I whispered. «I slipped.»
The betrayal ached. My son, raised with love, chose *her*.
Later, we learned there was no baby.
I forgave himfoolishly. «Mum, Im sorry,» he wept.
Peace returned. Or so I thought.
That night, Oliver told me: «Grace was in our bed while you were gone.»
My stomach dropped. «What?»
«She crawled in drunk. I sent her away.»
I didnt tell Oliver Jr. He wouldnt believe me.
—
My parents made it worse.
«Olivers a philanderer! Dump him!»
A thousand lies, and I started doubting. We fought. Oliver left.
A month later, a friend called. «Saw Oliver with another woman!»
Idiot. Of course vultures circled.
I brought him hometurned out, it was Emily. Twenty-five, career-driven, unmarried.
Oliver had made his choice. «Its me or your parents.»
I loved them, but their hatred was poison. We moveda fixer-upper in the countryside. No more pretending.
They called, cursing. «Youve abandoned us! Grace is sending us to a home!»
Let them rage.
Oliver and I are happy now. Quiet. Married in the village church.
Sometimes love means choosing yourself.
