**Diary Entry – 12th March**
They say marriage is sacred—built on love, trust, and honesty. I believed that with my whole heart. Twice, I started fresh, open and trusting, without hesitation. And twice, I was left with scars on my soul, loneliness in my eyes, and the only truly precious person in my life: my child.
My name is Eleanor. I’m from a small town in Yorkshire. In my youth, I was naive, tender-hearted, too kind. And kindness, as it turned out, often comes with a price.
The first time I fell in love, it was sudden. Years ago, I was returning home with a friend from a neighbouring city. The bus was delayed, darkness creeping in. My friend left early, and I was alone. Then *he* appeared—Thomas. He offered help, said he lived nearby, and invited me to stay the night. We hardly knew each other, but his mother treated me like family. They gave me my own room, fed me, cared for me. After days of warm conversations, it all unfolded—a whirlwind romance that led to marriage.
But the truth, as always, was worse than I imagined.
Thomas’s mother was the first to suggest the wedding. “She’s a good girl, reliable,” she said. And he agreed. Only later did I learn he’d been seeing another woman the whole time. His mother disapproved of her, so he “settled”—for me, for her, for himself. He married me but kept his heart elsewhere.
The marriage was hollow. He’d vanish for nights, drink too much, avoid conversation. When our son was born, it grew worse. I hoped fatherhood would change him—instead, he grew colder.
One day, he brought a young woman into our home, claiming she was a housekeeper and nanny. She stayed. At first, I suspected nothing—until I realised she was the friend of *the other woman.* She wasn’t just helping; she was arranging their secret meetings, covering for him.
I endured. Not because I was weak, but because I had nowhere else to go—not in body, but in spirit. I lived for my son. Eventually, I found work as a primary school teacher. Then, one day, like a bolt from the blue, *she* appeared—the other woman. His lover.
She stood at my door, trembling.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I can’t live this lie anymore. We’ve been together all this time, but I won’t do it anymore. I’m leaving him. I swear.”
And she did. But the “housekeeper” stayed—taking my place. After the divorce, she moved into our home, my bed, my child’s life. It felt like a nightmare.
Years passed. First, she left—fell ill and passed. I cared for her despite everything. Because decency matters. Then Thomas died too. Only my son and I remained. And a broken heart.
But life wasn’t done testing me.
Years later, I met Oliver. I hoped it was a second chance. Hardworking, he’d left for construction jobs—first in Libya, then Kuwait. Five years. He wrote letters, called, promised a “fresh start.”
When he returned, he was different—flashy, loud, surrounded by women. Money flowed freely: fancy dinners, expensive gifts, wild nights out. For everyone—except me. Meanwhile, I stayed in his house, caring for… his ageing mother. He knew I wouldn’t abandon her. He didn’t want a wife—he wanted free labour. And I was trapped again.
I stayed silent. For years. Until I realised: I wasn’t living my own life. I wasn’t a servant, a victim, or a background player.
Another quiet divorce. He kept his money and emptiness. I kept my son and my peace. I stopped looking for love. I was tired of being collateral for someone else’s convenience.
Now my son is twenty-two. Kind, honest, strong—nothing like his fathers. I’m proud of him. We have a cosy flat, quiet evenings, warmth in our home. I still teach at the same school. The children love me. Colleagues respect me.
I don’t delude myself anymore. Not everyone finds love’s happiness. But I found mine—in motherhood, in integrity, in surviving unbroken.
And if anyone says being too kind is a flaw, I’ll say: *No. It’s my strength.* Because of it, I’m still *me*—not bitter, not vengeful.
I live. I endure. I’m a woman who was betrayed and still chose kindness.
