**Wednesday, 15th June**
I used to hate my mother for what she did, yet here I stand—her mirror image.
My name is Eleanor Whitaker, and I live in the quiet market town of Stratford-upon-Avon, where the cobbled streets murmur secrets to the wind along the River Avon. As a child, I thought nothing could be purer than being young. My friends rushed to grow up—borrowed their mothers’ lipsticks, wobbled in heels—but I clung to my toys, my sketchbooks, my paints. I’d draw our family: me in the centre, Dad holding one hand, Mum the other, and in the distance, Grandad and Nan beaming. Who could’ve known that idyll would shatter, that my life would become a reflection of the very thing I despised?
Dad, Richard, was an engineer—head always buried in blueprints, a man of another world. But when he looked up, his eyes behind those wire-framed glasses held such love for Mum, Elizabeth, that I envied them. He endured her whims: the bohemian dresses, shelves of self-help books, odd friends with unwashed hair. Later, he swallowed her excuses—late-night “work meetings,” forgotten dinners replaced with quinoa salads because she “hadn’t had time.” He ate it without complaint, just as he bore her demands: separate bedrooms, the sacred ritual of breakfast together, which she insisted kept their love alive.
Every morning, Dad watched the clock tick past seven, knowing he’d be late. But he waited—waited for Mum to brew her ginger tea, spread hummus on toast, layer it with smoked salmon. The routine never changed: he sacrificed punctuality for her smile. Meanwhile, she spiralled—first meditation classes, then Pilates, then an affair with her instructor, Daniel. One evening, she announced, “I’m in love. My soul needs space. You’ll always matter, but I need passion.” I, just a girl, wondered: Was my love not enough?
Dad didn’t shout. He vanished into his work, as if spreadsheets could erase the hurt. Their lives were already separate, so little outwardly changed. But I fractured—grew sharp-tongued at school, a storm waiting to strike. Grandad, Albert, took me under his wing—taught me chess, helped with maths, wiped my tears and swore families were meant to stay. When Mum left, Nan’s heart gave out. Grandad’s sight failed—grief, he said—yet he still called Dad “son” with pride.
I needed to *fix* things. So one day, after hearing Grandad’s stories, I stole into Mum’s handbag and found Daniel’s number. Dialled his wife. “Did you know your husband is sleeping with my mother?” I spat. That night, I broke Mum’s heart. Daniel returned to his family; she was left alone. Did she forgive me? I don’t know. Did she see her own revenge when I married James? Or when our daughter, Emily, was born? I doubt it.
Yet time passed, and without realising, I became her. I dragged James and Emily hiking—my little obsession. Then took up swimming, fleeing the monotony of my desk. The pool was my escape, washing away fury—at work, at life, at James, who grew duller by the day. I denied it, but Mum’s shadow loomed larger. The truth struck when I fell for my coach, Oliver. James and Emily stopped being “enough”—I ached for freedom, for fire, just as she had.
I’d leave Emily with Grandad and race to Oliver, pulse wild. She’d ask, “Mummy, where are you going?” Grandad, blind but seeing everything, would squeeze her hand. The affair burned hotter until Oliver stood me up. Next day, at the pool, he said, “I have a wife.” The words gutted me. I fled to Grandad, sobbed into his cardigan, raged about stolen happiness. Then I saw tears in his sightless eyes. Understood. *He’d called Oliver’s wife.* Just as I had. “For Emily,” he whispered.
Months on, the wound still bleeds. But with it, I’ve made peace with Mum—understanding now the weight of being daughter, wife, and mother. One always suffers. James remains distant, yet Dad’s quiet grace humbles me. His boundless love, his forgiveness—*he* never clipped her wings. I did. And Grandad, my anchor, grounded me to save Emily. To save *me*.
Happiness isn’t stolen moments. It’s the family you hold openly. And though his eyes are dark, Grandad sees clearer than any of us.