**Unloved**
From childhood, Evelyn hated her name. Old-fashioned, frumpy. When she grew older, her mum told her there had been another woman in her father’s youth—beautiful, vibrant Evelyn. He’d been hopelessly in love with her, but she rejected him and married another.
“Then he met me. And when you were born, he named you after her. He never forgot his first love,” Mum said calmly.
“And you don’t resent him?”
“No. He loves you and me. But people always remember their first love. One day, you’ll have one too.” Mum smoothed Evelyn’s hair.
“Was his Evelyn as ugly as me?” the girl muttered.
“What nonsense! Remember the ugly duckling? If you hate the name so much, change it when you’re older. What would you prefer?”
Evelyn stood before the mirror, trying on names like dresses. None fit. She sighed, realising no name would make her prettier. It wasn’t the name that mattered, anyway. And she’d grown used to it.
But she doubted anyone would ever love her as her father had loved his Evelyn. Mousy hair, narrow eyes, a sharp chin—plain as porridge.
Father loved Evelyn almost as much as his pints. On his way home from work, he’d stop at the pub and return in high spirits, always bearing gifts—chocolate, sweets, toys. Or money if he’d forgotten. Evelyn saved it, buying what she liked.
When she finished school, Father drowned. Some lads lost their football in the river. Drunk, he waded in and never came out.
Mum cursed him for leaving them destitute. How would Evelyn afford university? What future was there in their village?
Heartbroken, Evelyn refused to leave. But Mum insisted.
“What’s here for you? Go, find a husband,” she said bitterly.
Evelyn left, dreaming of becoming a doctor. But with her village education, she settled for nursing college. She adored the crisp white uniforms.
Her dorm roommate was Margot—stunning, the kind of beauty God lavished attention on. Curly dark hair, caramel eyes, flawless skin, a figure like an hourglass. Evelyn paled in comparison.
Margot thrived under Evelyn’s envy, playing queen bee. They got along well enough—until Margot met Paul, an engineering student.
Evelyn fell for him instantly. Handsome as a film star, he’d visit often, sighing while Margot studied.
“Will you be long?” he’d ask impatiently.
“Take Evelyn to the cinema. I’ve exams,” Margot would say.
Evelyn longed to sit beside Paul in the dark, trembling with anticipation. But he never invited her, just sighed and left.
“Why treat him like that? I’d be over the moon if someone waited for me,” Evelyn protested.
“He’s not serious. Girls throw themselves at him. Find someone simpler,” Margot advised.
Evelyn’s grades were middling. One evening, Paul arrived to an empty room. The smell of frying bacon filled the air—Evelyn’s signature dish, sent from home. Students flocked to it like seagulls to chips.
“Dinner with me? Margot’ll be back soon,” Evelyn offered, watching Paul’s Adam’s apple bob.
He didn’t refuse. As he devoured the food, Evelyn watched adoringly, willing Margot to stay away.
“You’ll make someone a fine wife,” Paul said, lounging like a satisfied cat.
One Saturday, Margot left for home, asking Evelyn to apologise to Paul. She cooked his favourite meal.
“I bought cinema tickets,” he sulked when he heard Margot was gone.
“Take me instead. Unless you’re embarrassed?” she teased.
“Course not. Get dressed.”
Her heart pounded. Ninety minutes beside him! Maybe he’d even hold her hand. She freshened up, dashed outside before he changed his mind.
“Ready?” she beamed.
“Yeah.” He eyed her darkly.
She prattled nervously, inventing stories until he laughed. At the cinema, she seized his hand during a tense scene and didn’t let go. Afterward, he suggested a café.
“Waste of money. I’ve bacon at home—better than any restaurant.” She led him back.
They drank wine. He dozed off on Margot’s bed. She turned off the lights and sat beside him. When he nuzzled her shoulder, she held her breath as he kissed her.
“Sorry,” he mumbled in the morning. “Don’t tell Margot.”
Three weeks later, Evelyn realised she was pregnant.
“Paul’s,” she admitted.
Margot scoffed. “He won’t marry you.”
Paul shrugged when confronted. “Sort it yourself.”
Evelyn refused. She finished her exams but missed graduation—rushed to hospital in labour. Margot visited after, handing her money and baby clothes.
“Paul chipped in. Are you going home?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“Then you’ll need a flat. I found one—cheap, with an elderly landlady, Rosemary.”
Rosemary doted on the baby. Money ran out, but Evelyn traded injections for neighbours’ home remedies, then landed night shifts at the hospital to spend days with her daughter.
One day, she bumped into Paul. He peered into the pram, then started visiting with small gifts.
When Rosemary died in her sleep, the police suspected Evelyn—until Rosemary’s friends vouched for her, revealing a will leaving her the flat.
Now Paul proposed marriage. “I’m not a complete cad.”
Evelyn knew the flat tempted him, not love. Still, she agreed. He came and went as he pleased, but she was content. He always returned.
Until he grew distant, lost in thought. She learned why—he’d fallen for a lounge singer. Blonde, leggy, nothing like Evelyn, who’d never regained her figure after childbirth.
Paul came home late one night. “I’m leaving,” he announced. “I’ll send money.”
“Go,” she said. He’d married her but never promised love.
They’d renovated Rosemary’s flat. Her daughter started school. Evelyn worked steadily, Rosemary’s friends now like family.
Then Mum fell ill. Evelyn sold the house, took a mortgage for a bigger flat. Mum never saw it.
Years later, the singer appeared at her door, aged.
“Take Paul. He’s in hospital—drunk, fell at work. They’re discharging him.”
“Not my problem,” Evelyn snapped—but went anyway.
Daughter was furious. “Why bring him back?”
“He’s your father.”
Paul hobbled on crutches. She massaged his aching limbs.
“You’re doing it too hard!” he complained.
“Maybe.”
Gradually, he improved. Made dinner, greeted her at the door.
*How low he’s sunk—grateful for the woman he once scorned.*
“You’re better now. Where will you go?” she asked.
“You’re kicking me out?” He wept. “I’ve had my fill of wandering. Stay with me, Evie.”
Grey, frail, leaning on a cane—no trace of the boy she’d loved. But no suitors lined up for her either. Her daughter would marry soon. She’d be alone. And he’d always been her only love.
She patted his hand. He kissed her knuckles, damp with tears.
“I’ll make dinner.”
“Fry up some bacon and potatoes,” he said, voice cracking. “Like you used to.”
**Diary’s End**
Funny, isn’t it? Love isn’t about fairness or pride. Sometimes it’s just about who stays. And in the end, that’s enough.
