**Diary Entry A Turning Point**
*»Marina, you cant just leave me! What am I supposed to do without you?»*
*»The same thing you always dodrink from morning till night!»*
I slammed the front door behind me, collapsing into the drivers seat before the tears finally came. How had it come to this? A year ago, our family had been the picture of happinessthe kind people envied. But envy is just part of life, isnt it? People always covet what they dont have.
***
*»Marina, hurry up! Get Oliver readyIve got a surprise for you both. And dont forget warm clothes!»*
My husband, Nicholasor «Nick» when he was in one of his playful moodsloved surprises. This time, he took us out of London to a snowy countryside for snowmobiling. His colleague had just bought a place about sixty miles awaynot just a cottage, but something straight out of a medieval castle, complete with turrets and stone walls. Calling it a «fence» wouldve been an insult.
*»Well? What do you think?»* Nick asked, grinning at my stunned expression.
*»Theres something about this place it gives me chills.»*
*»Youre just cold. Come insideyou havent seen the fireplace yet.»*
The inside was even more unsettling than the outside. But the men loved it, and who was I to argue about taste? Some things just arent worth debating.
I hated the animal heads mounted on the roughly plastered walls. Nick insisted they were fake, but that didnt make them any less grotesque. Meanwhile, he and his friend devoured grilled meat right under the gaping jaws of a boar. Oliver, playing the fearless little man, dashed around with a toy sword, battling imaginary monsters. I tried not to look around too much, focusing instead on the flames in the fireplace.
Maybe that day is seared in my memory in such darkness because it was the last of my old life. Later, the owner rolled out two snowmobiles from the garageone of which would take my sons life. Nick was at the helm, and guilt would soon drown him, bottle after bottle.
I dont know why I was stronger. The pain I carried every day for nearly a year was indescribable, but I refused to let it consume me. It became part of me, invisible to everyone else. No one saw it in their cheerful faces. Sometimes I wanted to join Nick, to numb it all with drink. But I knew it would only make things worse. Drunkenness heightens emotions, and feeling anything right now was dangerousit bred anger, resentment, bitterness. Nick hid behind those emotions like a tortoise in its shell, refusing to come out no matter what I did.
I hadnt meant to leave him. I just needed space. So I drove. Snowflakes settled on the windshield, perfect as if designed by a computer. I kept going, stopping at petrol stations, drinking coffee in roadside cafés. Once, I even checked into a hotel just to sleep.
I wasnt thinking. I wasnt driving *to* anywherejust *away*. I dont remember when or why I turned off the motorway, but eventually, I found myself in a sleepy little town. I parked near a small park and sat there, motionless.
*»Youll freeze in there.»* A knock on the window startled me.
A group of teenagers passed by, and for a second, I marvelled at how kind young people could be.
*»Waiting for someone?»* the voice came again.
I squinted into the dim light and finally saw an elderly woman walking a small, curly-haired poodle, white as the snow under its paws. For some reason, I got out of the car and approached them.
*»Youve been sitting there a while with the engine off. I was worried something was wrong.»*
*»Something is,»* I whispered.
Why is it always easier to confess to a stranger? Maybe because they dont dig through your past looking for reasons to blame you. And if they do, you can always shut them out.
Before I knew it, I was sitting on a stool in a cosy kitchen with blue curtains, clutching a mug of chamomile tea and a crumpled tissue soaked with tears. Id thought Id cried them all out months ago. Turns out, I was wrong. Id just hidden them away, tired of empty condolences.
*»Marina, Ive made up the sofa for you. Rest, then you can keep driving to your nowhere.»*
*»Fine,»* I sighed, knowing I wouldnt make it to the car.
That morning, I woke up smiling for the first time in forever. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, the clock ticked on the wall, and a rough tongue licked my nose.
*»Charlie,»* I remembered the poodles name. He looked up at me with what couldve been a grin.
*»Charlie, leave the poor girl alone,»* Aunt Rose scolded, coming in with a tray of fresh cinnamon buns and coffee. *»When I cant sleep, I bake. Lucky you.»*
*»How do I thank them properly?»* I asked.
*»No need for words. Just roll your eyes and sigh.»*
Who knew pastries could be so demanding? But one bite, and I understoodthese deserved reverence.
For the first time, a memory of Nick bringing me breakfast in bedsometimes even odd combinations like sandwiches and pickled herringmade me smile instead of ache. It was like diving back into those days and surfacing with a gasp of happiness. Funny how a cinnamon bun could lift the weight off my shoulders.
I didnt apologise for intruding. It wouldve felt wrong. After breakfast, I dozed off again and woke at dusk. Charlie snored beside me, warm and comforting. Id never slept so deeply.
*»Goodness, whats wrong with me?»* I gasped, scrambling up. The house was quiet, half-dark. *»Have I lost my mind? Sleeping a full day in a strangers home?»*
Charlie just blinked at me.
Dressing quickly, I noticed the room didnt match Aunt Roses age. Posters lined the walls, a dumbbell sat by the window, and a desk was cluttered with knick-knacks. A framed photo on the shelf showed two young men in uniform.
The front door creaked open.
*»Sleepyheads! Its nearly supper time!»*
I hurried out, embarrassed. *»I dont know what came over me.»*
*»Sleep is the best medicine. Hungry? I bought cakeswere celebrating.»*
Five minutes later, we ate the most delicious rabbit stew. Aunt Rose chuckled, explaining a suitor from the countryside*»a madman who names all 135 of his rabbits»*had gifted it.
*»How long have you lived alone?»* I dared to ask.
*»Thirty years,»* she said softly. *»I buried my son, too. Older than yours, but the pain… it fades into something gentler. Almost sweet. I like to think Ill see him again.»*
Suddenly, I didnt want to leave. It felt like homethe dog, the floral wallpaper, even the ticking clock.
The next morning, a knock startled us. Nick stood at the door, bewildered.
*»No lover, then?»* he muttered, stepping in.
*»What lover?»*
*»Any lover. This towns called *Millfield*. Never heard of it.»*
Aunt Rose grinned. *»Pancakes for breakfast. Ever had wild mushrooms with them?»*
Nick blinked. *»Maybe as a child?»*
We laughed for hours. That afternoon, we walked through the snowy town hand in hand, feeding pigeons, sharing a bun. To passersby, we mustve looked like any happy couplenot the broken shells wed been.
But all escapes end. Driving home, I braced myself. Would the nightmare return? Nicks steady grip on my hand said no.
*»Well need a new rug,»* he remarked, eyeing the cognac stain.
*»Or keep it. Like the dumbbells in Aunt Roses sons room.»*
Without speaking, we climbed to Olivers room and began sorting his things. Our faces werent grief-strickenjust wistful. I wondered who hed have wanted to have his toy cars. Whod get the green cap hed hated but kept?
Nick slipped on a gorilla mask, mimicking the zoo trip where Oliver wore it, terrifying other parents. We laughed.
By bedtime, wed packed bags for charity, set aside keepsakes. Wed been brave. Then, under the covers, we talked about the accidentreally talked. Nick finally admitted it wasnt his fault. No one couldve avoided that fall.
That night, I fell asleep in his arms for the first time in ages.
***
Nine months later, Olivers sister was bornlikely conceived that very night. When I told Nick, he kissed me, hands already cradling my stomach.
We never did go to the seaside that summer. Instead, we visited Millfield. Aunt Rose had married her rabbit farmer.
And life, against all odds, went on.
