**Diary Entry**
Life has a way of settling things. I’ve lived a hard life—plenty of tears, disappointments, and humiliations—but somehow, I never let it harden me. I stayed kind, warm-hearted, even now in my retirement. I live alone by choice, though I had chances to remarry. I lived for my son.
«I believe one thing,» I sometimes tell my friend, Margaret. «If you show kindness to even the worst person, it comes back tenfold. That’s how the universe works.»
Margaret shakes her head. «I don’t know, Lucy. Some people are so bitter, I wouldn’t waste my breath on them, let alone a good deed. No, I don’t see it that way.»
We argue sometimes—because that’s just how we are. I see the good; Margaret’s more guarded.
My marriage was doomed from the start. My mother-in-law, Beatrice, took an instant dislike to me. The moment we met, she looked me up and down and said bluntly, «Where are you from—the countryside?»
«No,» I replied quietly. «I grew up in a small town. My parents still live there.»
«And what do they do?» she pressed.
«My father drives lorries. My mother’s a hospital aide. I have a younger sister, too.»
Beatrice smirked. «Just as I thought—common stock. No pedigree.»
Back then, life was simple. We all wore plain clothes, bought the same groceries. But some had money, flaunting fine things.
«And where do *you* work?» she demanded.
«With Edward. I’m a typist at the same firm.»
After school, I trained as a typist and got the job. Edward joined later as an engineer—tall, handsome, with grey eyes. The moment we met, sparks flew. Within weeks, he insisted on visiting my parents.
«Let me meet them,» he laughed. «Future in-laws, eh?»
«You’re awfully sure of yourself,» I teased.
My parents adored him—charming, polite. My father bonded with him over fishing. Edward had learned from his grandfather, spending summers by the river.
But Edward hesitated to introduce me to his parents. «Plenty of time for that,» he’d say. Then one day, he announced, «Let’s register our marriage tomorrow.»
«Do your parents know?»
«What’s to know? We’ll tell them after.»
When we finally visited, Beatrice grilled me—who, where, why? She’d laid out food but never offered any, too busy mocking my background. Edward’s father stayed silent; she ruled that house.
Beatrice was director of a bakery and had already picked a bride for Edward—Jasmine, who worked at the jeweller’s next door.
After the wedding, we lived with his parents. Beatrice was cruel, though she held back when Edward was home.
Five years passed. No children.
«Maybe I should see a doctor,» I murmured. Tests showed complications. «Don’t lose hope,» the doctor said.
But Edward changed. He drank, picked fights. Beatrice egged him on: «I told you she was useless. Dump her. Look at Jasmine—elegant, successful.»
I heard every word. We moved out. Secretly, I arranged adoption. A year later, we brought home Alfie from the orphanage.
Beatrice refused to acknowledge him. «That’s no grandson of mine. Some drunkard’s castoff. He’ll bring you nothing but trouble.»
Edward defended him: «His parents died. He’s just a child.»
«I don’t care. Keep him away. Not a penny from me.»
Heartbroken, I told Edward, «I won’t see her again. You visit alone.»
He did—and started staying late «with his mother.» Later, I learned he was with Jasmine.
Two years later, I came home early and found them together. I threw his things out that same day.
Divorced, raising Alfie alone, I heard gossip later. «Edward married Jasmine, swindled Beatrice, and blew the money abroad. They returned—penniless but pregnant. Beatrice forgave them when the baby came.»
Years passed. Beatrice called me one day, weeping. «Please come. Edward hit me.»
I found her on the floor, called an ambulance. She clutched my hand. «Forgive me. I ruined your life. God’s punishing me. My son’s a monster. Alfie’s the only decent one. Keep him safe.»
«I’ll bring you home after hospital,» I promised.
She died eight days later. She’d refused to report Edward, claiming she’d fallen.
At the funeral, Edward didn’t show. His son, Oliver, ransacked her flat for documents.
Then came the solicitor’s letter. Beatrice had left everything to Alfie—the house, the cottage, her savings.
Oliver threatened us, but it blew over. Alfie graduated with honours, married well, and visits yearly with his children.
Margaret nags me to remarry. «You’re too young to be alone.»
«Once was enough,» I laugh.
Last Sunday, she caught me heading out early. «Church? On your day off?»
«It’s Beatrice’s birthday. I’ll light a candle for her. Oliver came by recently—drunk, shaking. I gave him money. Let it be a kindness in her memory.»
Margaret sighed. «You’re too good. I’d have kicked him down the stairs.»
But that’s just how life is. Kindness returns.