**Diary Entry – A Love Delayed**
Helen’s daughter was a beauty, though she came into the world late, when Helen was nearly forty. It hadn’t been easy—after losing her husband, she had resigned herself to a quiet life alone, childless. Then, during a visit to her cousin in Manchester, something changed. She stayed two weeks, returned home, and nine months later, little Sophie was born.
The village gossiped, of course. Helen never revealed who the father was or why he never visited. Not even her closest neighbour managed to pry the secret loose. But Sophie grew up to be the envy of everyone—bright-eyed, strong, and lovely. Helen doted on her, raising her with care, teaching her manners, and ensuring she knew her way around the house. By the time Sophie finished school and completed her accounting courses, she returned to the village, working at the local poultry farm.
That’s where she met James. A newcomer, an agronomist, educated—nothing like the local farmhands. They took to each other at once. Within a month, James confessed his love, and they married. Sophie was twenty-one; he, twenty-five. The whole village celebrated.
But after the wedding, James began vanishing for days at a time. One summer evening, as they sat in the garden sipping tea, a car pulled up. A woman and a little boy stepped out. *”Here’s your son for the holidays,”* she said.
Turns out, James had a first wife—and a child—he’d never mentioned. He’d been visiting them all along. Sophie couldn’t forgive the deception. She packed her things and returned to her mother.
Her mother wept, urging her to reconsider. *”So what if he had a family before? He loves you now. The boy’s only here for summer.”* But Sophie refused. She divorced James and left for London, chasing happiness. She visited her mother often, but there was little to boast about—no steady job, no home, no love.
At twenty-eight, her mother fell ill. Sophie dropped everything and came back. For two years, she cared for her, though the doctors had given her less than one. And then she was gone.
Sophie didn’t return to London—city life had never suited her. James had remarried, had two more children, though his wife eyed Sophie warily whenever she was around. He himself had grown sombre, quieter. At the funeral, he was the first to help. Sophie was grateful but kept her distance.
She was still beautiful—no one would guess she was nearly thirty. But life had hardened her.
Then, unexpectedly, the village buzzed with fresh gossip. The Wilsons’ son, Thomas, was back from military service—twenty years old, tall, broad-shouldered. Every girl in the village swooned, waiting to catch his eye. But Thomas paid none of them any mind.
Until one evening by the river.
Sophie was swimming, her hair floating like a mermaid’s in the sunset. Thomas saw her—and his heart leapt. He waited on the bank, watching, then plunged in himself, carrying her out in his arms. She laughed, struggling, but he held tight. Smitten, he proposed within weeks.
His parents were horrified. *”She’s been married, lived in the city—what kind of wife is she for a boy like you?”* The village muttered. Sophie ignored them. She walked with Thomas along the riverbank at dusk, talking till nightfall. Love doesn’t take orders from reason.
His parents begged her to leave him be. So Sophie left—again. No happiness waited for her here.
**Seven Years Later**
London hadn’t been kind. She worked in a shop, rented a flat, then met a decent man—a good provider. They married, had a son, lived in a bright, spacious flat. Life settled. But when her husband fell ill and passed, Sophie was left widowed at fifty.
Now, with her fifteen-year-old son, she returned to the village—to tidy her mother’s grave, to face old ghosts. The house was weathered but standing. The neighbours came, curious. By nightfall, a knock sounded at the door.
Thomas stood there.
Life hadn’t spared him either. After Sophie left, he’d married a local girl, moved to her village—but no children came. His wife ran wild, humiliating him.
*”I never forgot you,”* he admitted. *”Too late, I understood—love doesn’t come twice.”*
Sophie wept as she watched him—his hair thinning, his hands rough from years as a mechanic. They talked till midnight. Before leaving, he asked for her address. *”Might visit you one day, if that’s alright?”*
She gave it, doubting he’d come.
But he did. Less than a year later, clean-shaven, well-dressed, he stood at her door.
Memories flooded back—his love, her flight. Could time really rewrite itself after twenty years?
It did. Thomas divorced his wife, won her son’s approval, and begged for her heart. At last, Sophie relented.
They married quietly, no fanfare. He moved in, and finally—twenty years delayed—they found happiness.
Lost time aches, but the best may still lie ahead.
