**Diary Entry**
When my phone rang, it took me a moment to recognise Mum’s voice. It sounded frail, almost childlike, choked with fear.
“Eleanor, can you come?”
A cold shiver ran down my spine. I’d only heard that tone once before—when Grandad passed. Back then, the whole family had scrambled in a panic, digging through wardrobes for anything black. Only my brother James had anything suitable—his teenage goth phase came in handy. Then came the endless train ride, stifling and silent, to the flat where Grandad, an artist, had spent his last days.
“What’s wrong?” My voice wavered. In my mind flashed an image of Edward, my fiancé, who’d no doubt be furious if the wedding had to be postponed again. The first time, we’d delayed because I broke my leg. Edward had shouted then—flights booked, everything arranged! This time, though, it wasn’t my fault…
“Gran’s test results came back. Just got home from the hospital…”
I exhaled. I knew she’d been having tests, but I’d hoped for good news. Still, if no one had died, maybe the wedding wouldn’t have to be cancelled. Or—should I hurry, just in case…
Thinking about Gran dying terrified me. She’d always been my rock—kind, strong, unwavering. When Grandad left Mum and me, Gran worked triple shifts so her daughter never went without. Even now, on a pitiful pension, she somehow scraped together help for me and James.
“I’ll come,” was all I managed to say.
Gran greeted me with surprising energy, even cracking jokes.
“Don’t fret, love. Chemo might sort me out. Shame about my hair, though. Had it all my life…”
“Let’s dye it! You’ll be the belle of the wedding!” I forced a smile.
Gran fussed, digging into her purse.
“Here—get the dye. And no arguing!”
“Gran, I can—”
“You’ve got enough on your plate. Take it.” Then, with a sparkle, she added, “I’ve got something for you—been waiting for the right moment…”
From the wardrobe, she pulled out a rose-pink bag. Inside was a hand-knitted ivory shawl. Old-fashioned, maybe, but so full of love that I decided instantly—I’d wear it on my wedding day.
“Thank you! It’s beautiful!”
“Margaret said you’d never wear something like this… Nothing’s ever good enough for her. Made her a dress once—she soaked it in green ink to spite me!”
I lied gently, “Mum said it was an accident…”
Over tea, chatter, and dyeing Gran’s hair, time flew. Then a knock—James and his mate Christopher had brought a kitten. Ginger, just like Gran’s old tomcat Marmalade, who’d passed years ago.
“Chris, love, I’m dying… What do I need a kitten for?”
“No one’s getting rid of anyone, Gran! Now you’ve got to stick around,” James winked.
Christopher and I slipped out to grab milk and biscuits. He was quiet until he murmured,
“Gran’s tough. Hope she pulls through.”
“You’ll come to the wedding, won’t you?”
“Course…” He fell silent again. But there was something in his eyes I was afraid to name.
The evening was warm—Gran laughing, James praising her new hair, Christopher admiring the shawl. Only Mum was missing, stuck on shift. When I checked my phone, dozens of messages from Edward flashed up. I’d completely forgotten—dinner with his parents tonight…
“Where the hell were you?” Edward roared. “Mum was worried sick!”
“I was with Gran. She’s got cancer.”
“She’s had her time. We’ve got a wedding to plan!”
James drove me home. Christopher stayed with Gran. Back at the flat, another row. Edward called the shawl a “rag” and forbade me from wearing it.
“I’m wearing it,” I said. “It’s from Gran.”
“Are you having a laugh?”
The fights didn’t stop. Then, the day before the wedding, Gran was hospitalised. I suggested postponing—Edward exploded.
“We’ve paid for everything! Guests are already here! Let Gran get treated.”
On the day, I wore the shawl anyway.
“Take that napkin off!” Edward snarled.
“It’s my wedding!” I stood firm, fists clenched.
“I’m your husband—you’ll do as I say!”
“Not yet, you’re not.”
Gasps from the bridesmaids. Parents tried to mediate. But I already knew—I wouldn’t be his. I wouldn’t bend, or bite my tongue, or endure…
“I want to see Gran. Take me there.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Edward grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t you touch her!” A voice cut through.
Christopher. Face twisted with fury.
“My wife—I’ll deal with her!”
“No. She’s not!” James stepped in, punching Edward square in the jaw. “Let’s go to Gran!”
Shouts, tears, his mother’s curses—all blurred together. But I followed James. And Christopher, who fell into step beside me, past the now-useless wedding balloons littering the path.
