**Diary Entry – A Lesson in Regret**
Sometimes life throws you a curveball that turns everything upside down. Arthur Whitmore, a prominent MP with a respectable surname, had grown accustomed to his orderly, meticulously planned existence. But that chilly December afternoon changed his life more than any parliamentary decision of the last thirty years.
The complaint that landed in his office seemed trivial at first—an upset woman claiming council workers had ruined her well-kept flowerbed outside her house. His assistant added, “She’s not just anyone—fifty but could pass for thirty. Owns a chain of salons and skincare clinics. Even has ‘Mother of Four’ in her social media bio.” And then came the name—*Eleanor Carter*—and something twisted inside him.
“You know,” he muttered to his assistant, “I once had a wife by that name. A stunner, simple background. Loved her like a fool, but…” He trailed off.
Thirty years ago, Arthur was just Arthur. His family name, Whitmore, carried weight, and his parents demanded an heir and a bride from the “right circles.” Eleanor didn’t fit. She was poor but impossibly lovely, with a kindness that shone through. He’d married her against their wishes. Yet after two childless years, the pressure got to him: *”If she can’t give you a son, leave her.”* He didn’t want to abandon her empty-handed, so he bought her a flat—not in London, but up north, far enough to save face. He never saw her again.
When the official car turned into the drive, his pulse hammered. There she stood by the gate—Eleanor. Older, wiser, elegant as vintage champagne. He recognised her instantly but pretended otherwise. “Stay in the car,” he told his team. “I’ll handle this.”
She knew him straight away. “Arthur? Thought it might be you. Still clinging to that precious family name?”
He looked down. “Changed it, actually. Dropped the double-barrel in the 2000s. Better for politics.”
“Everything for the name, then. For the bloodline. Some things never change.”
Over tea, Arthur studied her home, searching for hints—was she alone? Married? Then her phone buzzed. The screen flashed: *”Alex.”* Her voice warmed. “Hi, love. Yes, we’re settled. Just sorting things with the solicitor. Talk later—kisses.”
When she hung up, Arthur sat frozen. “He’s… ginger. Like I was at his age. That’s my son?”
Eleanor sighed. “Yes. A month after you left, I found out. Went to the clinic, but the doctor talked me out of it. Later, he became my husband. Raised Alex as his own—though we always told him the truth. He knows who you are. But his father? That’s the man who stayed.”
Arthur’s hands shook. For the first time in decades, he felt the weight of his choices crashing back.
“If you want to reach out, try. But don’t expect gratitude. He’s grown. It’s his choice now.”
Back in the car, his staff frowned. “Ten minutes over a flowerbed? What happened?”
Arthur wiped his face. “Note this: restore the flowerbed by next week.” Then, quieter: “Funny, isn’t it? Karma always collects. Even if it takes thirty years.”
