**Diary Entry – A Life of Love and Late Blooming**
My daughter was a beauty. Though she came to me late in life, nearly forty, after years of longing and loss. I had been widowed young, and God never granted my husband and me children. Then, on a visit to my cousin in Manchester, something changed. Two weeks there, and nine months later, my little Lizzie was born.
The village whispered, of course, but I never breathed a word of who her father was or why he never came around. Not even my closest neighbour uncovered the secret. Yet Lizzie grew up the envy of all—bright-eyed, strong, and lovely. I doted on her, dressing her in fine things, teaching her sense and housekeeping. By the time she left school, she’d trained as a bookkeeper and returned to our village to work at the local poultry farm.
That’s where she met Stephen. He was new to the village, an educated agronomist, nothing like the rough farmhands. They took to each other at once. Within a month, he declared his love, and they married—she just twenty-one, he twenty-five. The whole village celebrated.
But after the wedding, Stephen began vanishing for days. One summer evening, as they sipped tea in the garden, a car pulled up. Out stepped a woman with a little boy. “Here’s your father for the summer,” she said. His first wife—one he’d never mentioned. His visits? To see his son. Lizzie packed her things that very night and came home to me.
How I wept, how I pleaded! “So what if he had a family before? He loves you now. Take the boy—it’s only for the summer!” But Lizzie refused. Stubborn and proud, she left for London, chasing happiness. She visited often, but she had nothing to show for it—no proper job, no home, no husband.
Then, at twenty-eight, she returned for good. I’d fallen ill, wasting away. For two years, she cared for me, though the doctors gave me only one. She never went back to London. The city’s rush had never suited her. And Stephen’s new wife watched her with distrust—nowhere near as sharp as Lizzie, returned from the capital, still lovely as ever.
But Lizzie paid them no mind. She kept to my house, devoted, until the end. At thirty, she might as well have been twenty. Stephen, though—grey already at his temples, stern-faced. He helped at my wake, but Lizzie gave him no notice.
Then the village buzzed again. Young Arthur, just back from service. Twenty years old, tall as a tree, broad-shouldered. Every girl swooned, waiting for him to glance their way. But Arthur noticed no one—until he saw Lizzie by the river, swimming like a mermaid, her hair floating on the water.
His heart leapt. He waited on the bank, then swept her up in his arms when she emerged. She laughed, struggling, but he wouldn’t let go. Smitten. Within two weeks, he proposed.
The village reeled. His parents wept. “Are you mad? She’s been married, lived in the city! You’re just a boy—what could you offer her?” But Arthur wouldn’t hear it.
Lizzie? She spent two evenings with him by the river, watching sunsets. Love wasn’t something you commanded. Then his parents barged in, begging her to leave him be. “You’re not right for him!” So she left. No happiness waited here—only Arthur’s love and the village’s scorn.
Seven years passed.
London had been no kinder. She worked in a shop, rented rooms, then met a good man—steady, comfortable. They married, had a son. He often spoke of selling her village house, but she could never bring herself to return.
Then he fell ill. At fifty, she was a widow, her boy fifteen, still needing guidance. The old house gnawed at her. Maybe it was time to sell. That summer, they returned—to tidy my grave, to show their faces.
The house was weathered, the porch sagging, but solid still. Neighbours flocked, prying, gossiping. By nightfall, a knock came. Lizzie opened the door—and there stood Arthur.
Life had worn him. After she left, he’d waited years before marrying a local girl to spare feelings. But they’d had no children, and she’d been unfaithful. “I never forgot you,” he admitted. “I was a fool to listen to my parents.”
Tears burned her cheeks. At forty, he was balding, rough-handed from fixing tractors. They talked until midnight before she sent him away. “Give me your address,” he asked. “May I visit?”
She doubted he would. But within a year, he stood on her doorstep—clean-shaven, well-dressed, eyes full of longing.
Old warmth stirred. The love he’d once offered, the future she’d fled. Could it return after twenty lost years?
It did. Arthur left his wife, bonded with her son, and begged for her heart. Slowly, she relented. They married quietly, no fuss. He moved in, and at last, they found happiness—twenty years late.
Regret lingers for the time lost, but happiness still lies ahead.
