**Diary Entry: Just My Fate**
The icy slush crunched underfoot as Evelyn hurried home. Patches of frozen sleet made the pavement treacherous, slowing her pace. Cars barrelled past, splashing filthy water onto unsuspecting pedestrians. She kept her distance from the kerb, tugging her coat tighter.
By the time she reached the flat, her back was damp with sweat, her feet numb in soaked boots. She’d needed new ones for months.
Evelyn collapsed onto the hallway stool, peeling off her sodden boots and wriggling her toes in damp tights. A strong cup of tea with lemon—that’s what she needed to fend off a chill. Before she could prop her boots by the radiator, a sharp knock rattled the wall. Mum’s signal—always the same, a spoon against the plaster. Evelyn exhaled and shuffled into her mother’s room.
*“What, Mum?”*
A muffled groan answered.
*“I was at work.”* She adjusted the slipped blankets. The sharp tang of urine hit her. *Nappy’s full.* She grabbed a fresh one from the bedside pack, swallowing nausea as she changed it. Mum just moaned through the whole ordeal—words had left her years ago.
*“All done. I’ll make supper soon.”* Evelyn balled up the soiled nappy, ignoring the warbled protests. No use complaining. It wouldn’t help. A moment’s rest would’ve been bliss, but Mum’s knocks always came—demanding, relentless.
Once, they’d been a proper family. Dad chaired a university department; Mum kept house, doting on him. Then everything shattered. Evelyn was in Year 11, her brother William finishing his third year at uni, when Dad died.
Some resentful parent, furious her son hadn’t got a funded place, accused him of taking bribes. A lie—Dad was meticulous about integrity. The investigation crushed him. A heart attack on the way to hospital.
Mum’s mind unravelled after that. She stopped seeing Evelyn or William, just sat blank-eyed on the sofa, waiting for Dad to come home. Eventually, she’d start cooking, as if it were any other evening. She never accepted he was gone.
They used to have a housekeeper, Martha, who came twice a week—shopped at the market (Mum refused supermarket meat). After Dad’s death, they couldn’t afford her. Evelyn took over, but Mum only saw a servant. No matter how often Evelyn said, *“I’m your daughter,”* Mum called her Martha and barked orders.
Savings vanished fast—Mum had never been frugal. Dad had indulged her, buying jewellery, fine clothes. Back then, his colleagues visited often; Mum still made Evelyn lay out fancy dinners, dress up like they were expecting guests. Later, she’d scold her for cooking too much. School was Evelyn’s only respite. Until she had to leave.
William was the one who said it: she had to work. If *he* dropped out, he’d be conscripted—no use to anyone. But if he graduated, he’d help support them. It seemed logical then. Evelyn quit school. She’d attended music college, showed promise—enough to land a job at a nursery, leading singalongs for pennies. The pay was dismal, but she could visit Mum during the children’s naptime. Most of her wages went to rent and Mum’s medicine.
When William graduated, he moved to London. Promises of help evaporated. When she begged for money—just enough for a carer—he spat back about *his* struggles, *his* rent.
They’d never been close. William got the looks: chestnut eyes, thick hair, Dad’s strong jaw. Mum had been nearly forty when Evelyn was born—a frail, sickly baby. Always catching colds, thin as a rail. She took after Dad: mousy hair, a forgettable face. Mum’s gaze held pity; sometimes Evelyn wondered if she’d have kept the pregnancy, had she known.
Only Dad had cherished her—praising her piano recitals, ruffling her hair. But he was gone. Mum forgot her, treated her like staff.
William visited rarely. Once, after he left, Evelyn checked Mum’s jewellery box—hoping to pawn something small. Half of it was gone. She knew immediately. But Mum accused *her*, shrieking about calling the police.
Evelyn rang William. *“You took them.”* He feigned ignorance, hung up. She told Mum she’d sold them for bills. Mum raged but didn’t call the cops. William could do no wrong in her eyes.
One winter, Mum draped herself in the remaining gold, pulled on her fur coat, and wandered off to buy “presents” for Dad and William. Evelyn found her at dusk, half-frozen in Hyde Park—mugged, stripped bare. She survived, but her mind slipped further. Bedridden, incontinent.
Years passed. Mum worsened. Then William turned up, wrinkling his nose at the smell. *“You’re neglecting her.”*
Evelyn snapped. *“Take her, then. Let your wife play nurse.”*
He edged into Mum’s room—and fled. *“She didn’t know me. Christ, the stench. Put her in a home. You’ll go mad like this.”*
*“She’s our *mother*!”*
*“She’s a vegetable. Look at you—when’s the last time you had a haircut? Your hands—like a labourer’s.”*
*“How many times did I beg you for money? You stole her jewellery. Come for the rest? Tough. It’s gone.”*
William backed down—unusual for him. Then he circled his real goal: *“We’re cramped in London. The kids need space… Sell this flat. We’ll buy you a smaller one, keep the difference.”*
Evelyn’s stomach dropped. *“And Mum?”*
*“She won’t last. A home’s kinder.”*
*“You’d really do this?”*
*“Try me.”*
That night, she caved—on one condition: the new flat must have a big kitchen. She’d sleep there.
*“Of course, sis,”* William beamed. He’d never called her *sis* before.
The new place was a coffin: a narrow room, a kitchen barely fitting a sofa. Traffic roared day and night; opening a window meant fumes and noise. *“Be grateful it’s not a bedsit,”* William sneered, vanishing.
Summer baked the top-floor flat; winter iced it. Mum died three months later. William skipped the funeral—*“The wife just had a baby.”* Evelyn buried her alone, borrowing for the plot.
After, she tossed the urine-soaked bed, moved the kitchen sofa in. A colleague urged her to take a break—offered family in Cornwall, free lodging. She went.
One evening, she helped a wheelchair-bound woman stuck in a lane. Over tea, the woman’s son, Thomas, walked her home. *“Come by again,”* he said. She did. Soon, his mother hinted: *“Thomas likes you. Stay? We’ve a big house, garden.”*
Mornings brought baskets of fruit—Thomas’s quiet courtship. Part of her wanted to say yes. But a day helping at his market stall changed her mind—back aching, sunburnt, cooking supper afterwards. This wasn’t love. Just another person wanting free labour.
*“I’m leaving,”* she told his mother. *“I’m a musician. This isn’t my life.”*
Back in London, she knew she’d chosen right. Then William called—*“I’ve crashed the car. Can’t walk. The wife left. Take me in.”*
Evelyn almost laughed. *“Where? The flat you stuck me in? Where Mum died? Remember when you wanted to dump her in a home? When you stole her rings? Sent no money?”*
*“Please.”*
*“You never cared about my tears. Why should I care about yours?”*
Guilt gnawed at her on the train home. She silenced it. *No more servitude.*
Months later, a boy at the nursery lost his parents. No family. The headmistress suggested fostering—if Evelyn married. Her brother-in-law would fake it.
She agreed. The marriage became real. A daughter followed. For the first time, Evelyn had a family that loved her.
William? Shipped to a care home.
**Lesson:** Some fates are chains we clasp ourselves. The trick is knowing when to break free.
