Allie Jones - Diary Entry

(Written before The Cosy Cottage Café opened)

I’m not entirely sure why I bought this notebook.

Perhaps because it feels like something I should do at a time like this. People always say writing things down helps, don’t they? Clears the mind. Helps things make sense.

I’m not convinced. And yet here I am.

It still feels strange, sitting here alone. No, that’s not quite right. I’m not alone. Jordan is upstairs, no doubt wearing those headphones that make it impossible to tell whether he’s listening to music or something exploding. Mandy is in London, building a life that feels very far away from here now. But everything feels different.

Quieter.

He’s not here and never will be again.

I don’t write his name often. I’m not sure if that’s because it hurts too much, or because it doesn’t hurt in the way I thought it would.

That probably makes me sound like a terrible person.

Does it? I’m not sure.

Roger

There. Written down.

Six months ago, my life looked entirely different. I was still making sure everything was just so for him. Towels folded properly. Cushions plumped. Surfaces gleaming.

Everything looking right.

Even when it didn’t feel that way underneath.

And now… everything has shifted.

I keep waiting for a moment when things will settle. When I will wake up and feel certain again. Instead, it’s like standing on uneven ground, trying to convince myself I won’t fall.

There’s so much to do and I don’t know where to start. I keep reading about women who’ve reinvented themselves in mid-life and followed their dreams after divorce or being widowed. In theory, it sounds great but the reality isn’t quite so straightforward.

I’ve tried to visualise myself realising my dream. Sometimes, I can. Sometimes, I can’t.

Then the old doubts creep in.

Who do I think I am?

A café owner? At my age?

I haven’t worked like that in years. Baking for village events is one thing. Running a business is something else entirely. There are rules and expectations and people relying on you not to get it wrong.

And what if I do?

What if I take everything I have left and pour it into something that fails?

I try not to think about the money too much. It doesn’t quite feel like mine. But I can’t leave things as they were either.

I don’t think I ever truly wanted to.

That feels like another terrible thing to admit.

But when I picture the cottage café of my dreams, really picture it, something inside me shifts.

Not certainty.

Just… a flicker.

Low beams. Uneven floors. Mismatched tables. The smell of coffee and warm pastry drifting through the rooms. A garden full of flowers that don’t quite behave themselves.

People sitting. Talking. Staying.

A place that feels… safe.

A place where people can go to eat, drink and relax for a while.

Not perfect.

Just real.

Just mine.

And perhaps that’s what this is really about.

Not the café.

Not the business.

Me.

That feels strange to write as well.

I’ve spent so long being someone’s wife, someone’s mother, making sure everything ran smoothly, that I’m not entirely sure who I am without all of that.

But maybe I’m allowed to find out.

Even now.

Jordan asked me earlier if I was sure about the café. Not in a doubtful way. More careful. As if he was trying to look after me. I suppose things have changed more than I realised. I don’t want them to worry. I don’t want Mandy thinking I’ve suddenly lost my mind and decided to reinvent myself overnight.

This isn’t a whim. It might look like one. But it isn’t. It’s something I’ve carried quietly for years.

I just buried it.

And now it’s surfaced again, and I don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. Probably both.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about how different things might have been. Not just with Roger… but before that. Before everything was decided so quickly. Before I chose the path that felt like the only one available at the time.

I don’t regret my children. I never could. But I do sometimes wonder about the other version of me. The one who chose differently. The one who didn’t settle quite so quickly.

That feels like a dangerous thought. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe this café… is a way of meeting her after all. Not a second chance. Something quieter than that. Something braver.

I don’t feel brave.

I feel tired. And uncertain. And occasionally like I might cry over absolutely nothing.

But I also feel something else.

Hope.

There. I’ve written it now, so I can’t pretend it isn’t there.

It’s small.

Fragile.

But it’s enough. Enough to make me take the next step. Enough to make me try.

So I’m going to do it. I’m going to buy the cottage. I’m going to open the café. And I’m going to see what happens. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s imperfect. Even if I’m not entirely sure who I’ll be at the end of it.

Perhaps that’s the point.

Because something tells me… this isn’t just about a café.

Something is changing.

And I think…

I hope…

It might just be me.

Allie

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