**Diary Entry**
Emily grew like a weed by the roadside—untended, unloved, unnoticed. No kindness, no care, not even a simple “I need you.” Her clothes were always someone else’s cast-offs, often so threadbare you could see her bony knees through the holes. Her shoes squelched with water or flapped loose where the soles had torn away. Her mother, too busy for fuss, chopped her hair short with a bowl, yet the strands stuck out in all directions, screaming of the chaos in her life.
She never went to nursery. Perhaps she would’ve liked to—somewhere with toys, children, warmth. But her parents were occupied with more pressing matters: where to find the next bottle. Her father and mother drank, fought, disappeared in search of more drink. When they vanished, Emily hid—in basements, on stairwells. She learned young: the less you’re seen, the safer you are. If she didn’t escape in time, she covered the bruises afterward.
The neighbours pitied her. They muttered about Suzanne, her mother, who’d once been decent before falling in with a thug and losing herself. But mostly, they pitied Emily. Pitied—yet did nothing. Some tossed her food, others gave old jumpers, but if anything was decent, Suzanne sold it for drink. So Emily remained—ragged, barefoot, starving.
She started school late, only to find she loved it. Learning came easily. She wrote neatly, raised her hand, devoured every book she could reach. In the library, she stayed till closing, turning pages like sacred things. Teachers marvelled—how could this quiet, neglected child hold such brightness?
Her classmates didn’t accept her. Didn’t understand. Didn’t pity. They feared her. The tatty clothes, wild hair, silence—it all made her an outsider. She didn’t play, didn’t laugh, didn’t get jokes. Worse—her parents. The children mimicked drunk Suzanne, called Emily “pathetic.” The name stuck. At first whispered, then shouted. Soon, no one remembered her real name.
The teachers saw the cruelty but stayed silent. Some feared upsetting “respectable” parents. Others felt powerless. Most were just used to it. And Emily hid.
Her refuge was an old park behind the school, near a weed-choked pond. There, beneath an ancient oak, she spent evenings—sometimes nights—when home was too frightening. Stray cats and dogs kept her company. She shared food with them, hugged them, spoke to them. Under the rustling leaves, she could breathe.
Her father died when she was fourteen—frozen drunk in a snowdrift. Only Suzanne and Emily stood at the funeral. Her mother wailed, beat her chest; Emily just stood there. No tears, no words. Only lonely relief and shame for feeling it.
Afterwards, Suzanne lost her grip entirely—fits, screams, blank days. Sometimes she didn’t recognise Emily. So the girl worked—scrubbing floors, hauling water, cleaning. Neighbours tossed her coins. With these, she bought medical books, convinced she could cure her mother one day.
School grew worse. Someone learned she cleaned for money, and the torment escalated. The worst was Gemma—the golden girl, daughter of well-off parents.
“Oi, pathetic! Off to scrub toilets again?” she’d jeer as Emily hurried past.
Emily stayed silent, trained herself not to hear. But each time, the pain settled inside like a stone.
“Why do they hate me?” she whispered to the stray dog nuzzling her leg. “What did I do? Is this fair?”
Then he arrived. William Reeves. The new boy. Tall, dark-haired, handsome. Moved from Manchester. Clever, athletic, quiet. Every girl fancied him. Emily did too—but hid it. Whenever he passed, her heart jumped, cheeks burned. She prayed no one saw.
Gemma claimed him instantly. Designer clothes, perfect makeup, perfume—she fought to win. No one dared compete. Emily never dreamed she stood a chance.
One day, late after tending her mother, Emily rushed into class and dropped her medical book. Gemma snatched it up.
“‘Psychiatry’? Gone mad like your mum, pathetic?”
Emily broke. Clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, she fled—barging into William on the way. He turned, confused.
She ran to the park, to her oak tree, collapsed in the snow, and sobbed.
That’s when she saw the dog. Saw it step onto the pond’s thin ice. Saw it crack. Saw it fall.
Emily plunged in after. Stripped her coat, crawled forward, grasped the dog’s scruff—and the ice gave way. The freezing water stole her breath. The dog thrashed beside her. She fought to swim, but her limbs numbed. Then—hands. Strong hands hauled her and the dog out.
William stood on the bank.
“Come on. My mum’s a doctor. You’re freezing. We live close,” he said, shrugging off his soaked jacket to wrap around her.
Emily nodded, barely hearing.
The next day, they walked in together.
“You’re joking!” Gemma shrieked. “She’s pathetic!”
William answered calmly, “Only hearts can be pathetic. And yours is the worst I’ve seen.”
Gemma recoiled. The class fell silent. Emily sat down—not alone, not head bowed, for the first time.
Now she had someone who saw her as a person, not “pathetic.” And Lucy—the rescued dog, now living with William.
Sometimes life gives a chance to those who wait.
**Lesson:** Cruelty costs nothing, but kindness can save a soul. Even the smallest light can banish the darkest shadows.
