**Diary Entry – 12th October**
Ever since I was a child, I dreamed of that house—a little wooden cottage by the lake in the Lake District, with the scent of pine, damp earth, fresh baking, and long summer evenings. Every summer, we’d go there—my brother, sister, and I swimming until our lips turned blue, fishing with Dad, and in the evenings, listening to the water ripple and the old porch creak. To me, that house wasn’t just a holiday home—it was a piece of my soul, part of the family, a place where I truly felt warmth.
When I turned thirty-five, Mum mentioned it almost casually:
*”Ellen, you know the house will be yours one day. I decided long ago. You’re the one who loves it, always looks after it.”*
I never asked, never demanded. I just believed her.
A year passed. The house began to fall apart—the foundation tilted, the roof leaked, the windows rattled in the wind. Mum had aged; she couldn’t afford the repairs. I couldn’t bear to watch our treasured place crumble.
I gave up my holiday, cancelled a trip abroad, even delayed renovating my own flat. Every penny went into that house. I hired builders, spent every weekend there—overseeing work, choosing paint, helping where I could. I bought furniture, picked out fabrics. I poured fresh life into it. Mum would smile and say,
*”Goodness, how lovely it looks… Just like when I was young.”*
*”Told you it’d breathe again,”* I’d reply, exhausted but happy.
When it was finally done, we sat together on the refurbished veranda. The sun dipped low, tea cooling in our cups. Then, barely above a whisper, she said,
*”Ellen… I’ve given the house to Victoria.”*
*”What?”* It didn’t sink in at first.
*”Your sister… she’s struggling. The divorce, the baby, no proper home. I thought she needed it more.”*
I went numb. Just sat there, silent. Everything inside me snapped. Like a blow straight to the heart. That house was my anchor—I genuinely believed it’d stay mine. I’d put more than money into it—my effort, my heart, my memories. And Victoria? She’d barely spared the place a thought. Never visited. Never cared. Mum hadn’t even talked to me. Just… handed it over.
I didn’t shout. Didn’t argue. Just stood and walked out. For days, I couldn’t eat, sleep, or speak. My chest felt hollow, like breathing took effort. It was as if Mum had torn something alive from me and tossed it aside—like she’d said, *”You’ll manage, you’re strong.”* Except… I didn’t.
A week later, I finally called:
*”Mum, do you regret it at all?”*
A pause. Then, softly:
*”I wanted to help you both… but I think I hurt the one who was always there.”*
Since then, I visit less. Victoria lives there now. We barely speak. The lakeside house isn’t a home anymore. Just a place. Empty. Cold. Like the part of my soul that stayed behind.
Sometimes betrayal doesn’t come from strangers—it comes from family. Promises made in love, especially between parents and children, should be sacred. Because betrayal from those closest to you doesn’t heal—not with time, not with forgiveness. No words soothe it. No explanation fixes it. It just stays. Forever.