**Diary Entry**
“Do you remember me?”
“Mum, you won’t be upset if I leave tomorrow, will you?” asked Emily as Catherine returned from the hospital.
“Couldn’t you stay just one more day?”
“I’ve already stayed three days instead of two. Paul and Oliver are waiting for me at home.”
“Alright, go then, love. Thank you for coming. I shouldn’t have pulled you away. What time’s your train? I’ll walk you to the station.”
“No need, Mum. Rest instead. Dad’s drained so much from you, and still, you care for him—running to the hospital every day.”
“What are you talking about? He’s your father. How could I not?” Catherine bristled.
“He never cared about me—my grades, my lessons. He was just… there, and I can’t even remember him properly. What if it were you ill? Would he have done the same?” Emily snapped.
“Probably not. But I’m not doing this just for him—it’s for me, too. We all have to answer for our choices. He’s sick, he needs help. Needs *me*.”
“You mean at the Last Judgment? Feed the hungry, visit the sick—that sort of thing?”
“That too.”
“He was always selfish. Never valued you. You carried our whole family—working, cooking, shopping, cleaning. Never once saw him lift a finger. If he sneezed, he’d take sick leave. But you? Never once. You’d work through anything. He’d cough and suddenly he was bedridden.”
“Why so bitter? Women are tougher, more patient—we bear pain better. Housework is our lot. If a husband helps, fine. If not, so be it. Isn’t it the same with you and Paul?” Catherine didn’t like this conversation. Thomas hadn’t been a perfect husband or father, but Emily had no right to resent him so harshly.
“Have you really forgotten? Forgiven him?”
Catherine studied her daughter.
“Emily, it was so long ago. Time’s passed. It took a while, but yes—I forgave him.”
“Time passed? Hardly. He remembered *her* all right. Ran off to her again.”
“That’s the illness. He forgets the present but clings to the past. He didn’t go to *her*—just to his youth. Saw her and didn’t even recognise her. Panicked, forgot his own address. Lucky she didn’t call the asylum, just brought him home.”
“You’re too trusting, Mum. She saw him weak, confused—didn’t want the burden. Let *her* nurse him, spoon-feed him, run to hospital. She’d learn the hard way. Back then, when he was strong, she nearly stole him from us,” Emily lashed out.
Catherine sighed.
“But she didn’t. Why dredge it up? It’s easy to judge. Should I have stayed angry? Would that have helped him? Me? *You*?”
I’ve had those thoughts too. Imagine if I’d left him—just you and me, scraping by on my teacher’s salary. You were twelve. A difficult age. You’d snap, say you were unlucky with me. ‘Other mums are proper mums—mine’s just a teacher.’
You say he ignored your life, but you *feared* him. Admit it. Without him, I’d never have managed you.
Times were hard then. Shops empty, nothing to buy. Yet you wanted new dresses, new shoes.
He earned, didn’t drink like others. You had music lessons, dance classes—each recital needing a new costume. Cost a fortune. If I’d left him, could I have given you that? He bragged when you won competitions. Listen—” Catherine cut off Emily’s protest.
“I’m not excusing him. But try seeing it from my place. You think Paul’s different? Most men stray—if not in deed, then in thought. Wait—I thought you didn’t remember any of this. We never spoke of it.”
Emily looked away.
“I was twelve. Didn’t understand, but I *heard*. Didn’t want to upset you.”
“My parents raised me strict. My father was nothing like yours. Not a step without his say. Mum accounted for every penny. No flowers, no gifts—‘waste of money,’ he’d say. Only necessities.
Checked my schoolbook, scolded me for low marks. No evenings out—or if so, home before dark. Once a classmate visited—Dad *threw* him down the stairs. I’d never even been on a proper date before Thomas.
We’d sneak to afternoon films so Dad wouldn’t know. When Thomas proposed, I said yes. Not love—just attention. Freedom from Dad’s grip. He’d never have let me marry if not for Mum. And *you* complain he ignored you? You had liberty—I had none.”
She too had asked her mother why she stayed.
“Know what she said? ‘He doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit, doesn’t stray—his temper’s bearable.’ So I bore it. If we’d divorced—then what? Remarry? What if he’d been worse? No one’s perfect. Dreams never match reality.”
“And then—you. I feared a stepfather would treat you worse.”
“You never told me,” Emily murmured.
“About *her*? She was beautiful—men swarmed like bees. Your father was no exception. He’s faded now, but back then? She clung like a limpet. He left, lived with her two weeks. I was *broken*. But he came back.”
She couldn’t have children—too many abortions. Not just that. Men still trailed her, even with Thomas there. He told me later he’d have gone mad with jealousy or killed her.
Remember my friend Margaret? Her husband was plain—got hurt somehow, became disabled. She worked; he stayed home, cooked. She envied *me*, said she couldn’t respect him.”
“Puts things in perspective,” Emily mused.
“Seems so.”
“Sorry, Mum. I never saw it like that.”
“The doctor said the shock of running off sped his illness. Said we must shield him from stress. But how? I don’t know what he’ll remember. Enough—it’s late. You’ve an early start, and I’m tired. Let’s have tea and sleep.”
At dawn, Emily left. They hugged goodbye—closer than in years. She promised they’d all visit in summer.
After hospital, Thomas changed. Shuffling steps, vacant eyes—only food and TV held meaning. At first, Catherine locked him in when shopping. But he never tried to leave again.
Then came the gas bill notice. A long queue, a stop at the shops—returning, a neighbour said:
“Saw your Thomas half an hour ago. Asked where he was going—he ignored me.”
Catherine dropped her bags, ran. Found him on a bench in slippers and coat. He didn’t know her. At home, she warmed his feet, gave honeyed tea. That night—rasping coughs. By morning, fever. The ambulance took him. Two days later, pneumonia took his life.
Emily returned for the funeral—husband and son in tow.
“Perhaps it’s for the best. It would’ve worsened. You did all you could.”
“The last days, he didn’t know me. But before he ran off… he touched my hand and said, ‘Sorry.’ Just for a second—his eyes were clear. Like he was saying goodbye. Now I’m alone.” She blinked back tears.
“Come stay with us. Just for a while.”
“No, love. This house holds my life. My memories are here. I thought I never loved him—we were too different. Now I think it *was* love.”
After they left, Catherine visited the grave often—fresh flowers, soft words to his portrait.
“I invited *her* to the funeral, Thomas. She didn’t come. Forgive me—I was angry so often. Now you’re gone… I miss you. Do you remember me?”
**Lesson:** Love changes. It may fade into habit, sour into hate—or something deeper. Don’t judge. You’re not perfect either.
