**Diary Entry**
Today was meant to be just another ordinary day, another relentless cycle of meetings and contracts. Yet, something inside me shifteda quiet, insistent pull I couldnt ignore. For the first time in years, I left the office early.
My name is Edward Whitmore. To most, Im the face of a thriving property empire, a man who built a fortune from the ground up. But wealth means little when the walls of your home echo with silence. Five years have passed since my wife, Charlotte, left this world, taking the warmth of our home with her. Our children, Oliver and Imogen, grew up under the care of Margaret, our housekeepera woman who stepped into the emptiness without ever demanding recognition.
Margaret was always there, steady as the Thames, moving through our Kensington townhouse with quiet grace. To me, she was part of the furniture; to Oliver and Imogen, she was everythingcomfort, joy, the closest thing to a mother they had left.
When my car pulled through the wrought-iron gates this afternoon, I expected the usual hush. Instead, laughter spilled through the open windows, bright and uncontained. I followed it to the dining room, where I stopped in the doorway, frozen.
The table was a battlefield of flour, icing sugar, and scattered berries. Oliver stood on a chair, grinning as he smeared buttercream onto a lopsided cake, while Imogen doubled over with giggles. And there was Margaret, her apron dusted white, tryingand failingto scold them through her own laughter.
She wasnt just serving them. She was *living* with them, her eyes crinkling with affection as she wiped a smear of jam from Imogens cheek.
My throat tightened. I couldnt remember the last time Id heard Olivers unrestrained chuckle or seen Imogens face alight with pure delight. The house hadnt felt this alive since Charlotte.
A memory surfaced, her voice soft but firm: *»Children dont need your fortune, Edwardthey need you.»*
Id forgotten. Until now.
Margaret turned, startled, as I stepped forward. The children froze, uncertain. I barely trusted my voice. «Thank you,» I whispered.
She blinked. «Mr. Whitmore?»
But Oliver and Imogen didnt hesitatethey barrelled into me, their small arms wrapping tight around my waist. I held them closer than I had in years, my vision blurring. For the first time, they saw me weep.
That night, I stayed. We ate shepherds pie at the table, the children chattering nonstop about school, their disastrous baking, all the little things Id missed. And for once, I listened.
Weeks passed. I came home earlier. I joined Margaret and the children in baking shortbread, reading *Winnie-the-Pooh* at bedtime, strolling through Hyde Park at dusk. Slowly, the house transformedno longer a cold monument to loss, but a home.
One evening, I found Margaret by the bay window after the children had gone to bed. Moonlight softened her features, and it struck me how much of herself shed given to us, asking for nothing in return.
«Youre here now,» shed said simply when I tried to thank her. «Thats what they need.»
Months later, I stood in the doorway again, watching her twirl Oliver and Imogen under the glow of the chandelier. The room that once felt hollow now brimmed with lifetheir laughter, the scent of cinnamon, the quiet rhythm of belonging.
Tears pricked my eyes, but this time, they werent from regret.
Id gone home that day seeking escape. Instead, I found everything Id lost.
