**Diary Entry**
Should I tell her that my son doesn’t love her at all?
My name is Emily Whitaker, and I live in Windermere, where the Lake District breathes quiet solitude by the water’s edge. I’m writing this because my soul is torn with worry, and I can’t find peace. I confided in my closest friend, but instead of comfort, I was met with wide eyes and a sharp reply: “Have you lost your mind? Don’t get involved—you’ll drown in someone else’s pain!” Her words stung, but they didn’t help. I need an answer, or this burden will suffocate me.
It’s about my son, James. He’s 25 and shares our home with his girlfriend, Sophie. On the surface, there’s nothing to complain about—they keep to themselves, both work, and don’t rely on us. Sophie is a gem: polite, gentle, and kind-hearted. But I know my son better than anyone, and I see the truth he hides behind smiles—he doesn’t love her. James cares for her—tender, attentive, always ready to help. He fulfils her every wish like a knight from a fairy tale: flowers and gifts for every occasion, picking her up from late shifts, even in the dead of night. When their weekends align, they escape—sometimes to the countryside, other times to the Highlands for skiing or to coastal retreats.
Recently, Sophie took a bad fall on the slopes—so hard I thought she’d broken everything. James carried her back to their lodge, then rushed her to hospital in Manchester. While she recovered with her leg in plaster, he tended to her like a child: feeding her, soothing her, never leaving her side. To an outsider, he’d seem the perfect, doting partner. But I know better. It’s a mask. He doesn’t love her. His heart is silent, and it breaks mine.
Before Sophie, there was Charlotte. Their love was a storm—sharp edges, shouting matches, tears, breakups, and fiery reconciliations. She was his first real love, the kind that burns you from the inside. I thought they’d settle, soften each other’s rough edges, but she suddenly moved to France, leaving him shattered. For six months, James was a ghost—barely eating, barely sleeping. I hovered over him, coaxing him like a child, terrified he wouldn’t survive. Then came Sophie—the opposite of Charlotte. She’s calm as still water, a patient listener, never raising her voice. She’s brought light into our home, but I see it plainly: for him, this isn’t love. It’s duty, gratitude—anything but passion.
And so, my tormenting question: do I tell her the truth? You might call me mad, but I can’t bear this knowledge. Sooner or later, the truth will erupt like scalding lava and destroy everything. I imagine the devastation awaiting this sweet girl—so gentle, so undeserving of such pain. Her heartbreak would crush her like a fragile bloom underfoot. She’s done nothing to earn this, yet I stand by, watching her march toward the cliff, blind to what awaits.
My friend is right—I’m stepping where I might get burned. But how can I stay silent? A mother’s instinct screams at me: save her, warn her, don’t let her shatter! I see how Sophie looks at James—with such faith, such tenderness, it makes my chest ache. And him? He plays his part flawlessly, but I know his eyes. There’s no fire there, not like with Charlotte. He’s kind to her, but it isn’t love, and I can’t pretend not to see it.
Sometimes I wonder—am I wrong? Could this just be my own fears twisting reality? No. I feel it in my bones. James stays with her because it’s comfortable, because she’s good—not because he can’t breathe without her. The thought gnaws at me day and night. Should I tell Sophie? Shatter the world she believes is hers? Or stay quiet until he makes a move that destroys her? If I say nothing, I become complicit in her pain. If I speak, I’ll break everything myself—she’ll despise me, and James will curse me.
Please, I beg for advice! I’m not mad—just a mother who sees too much. My heart aches for both of them—for Sophie, giving her heart to someone who won’t take it, and for James, trapped in this lie. What do I do with this truth burning inside me? How do I protect her without losing my son? I’m at a crossroads, and every choice feels like a knife to the chest. Tell me, how do I find peace in this hell I’ve created with my own thoughts?