**Diary Entry – 5th June, 2024**
“Honestly, Nat, how can you raise a girl like that?” my sister, Rebecca, would always say, shaking her head. “She’s a young lady, not some rough-and-tumble lad!”
Natalie and Rebecca were sisters, both married with children. Natalie had a daughter, Emily, and a son, while Rebecca had just one little girl, Sophie.
They saw each other often—usually Rebecca and Sophie visiting Natalie’s place in the countryside, a proper house with a lovely garden, perfect for sitting out in the summer or letting the kids run about. Rebecca’s family lived in a flat in town, so visits to Natalie’s were a treat.
Rebecca was convinced her Sophie was cleverer, prettier, and far more refined than Emily. The girls were only a year apart, Emily being the elder.
“Nat, your Emily’s up that tree again—honestly, what sort of behaviour is that?” Rebecca would scold, always trying to steer Natalie’s parenting.
“What’s the harm?” Natalie would shrug. “She’s a child. Let her explore.”
“But climbing trees? That’s for boys, not girls,” Rebecca would insist, though Natalie only ever smiled at her.
The cousins got on well enough, though I reckon Sophie secretly wanted to clamber up that old oak too. But Rebecca kept a sharp eye on her—no such nonsense was allowed.
Emily never envied Sophie, though Rebecca was certain she should. Growing up, Emily couldn’t have cared less. She was lively, quick, and always in the thick of things. A real tomboy in a skirt—never backed down from the lads, climbed trees right after them, even scrapped if they pushed her or her little brother too far. Once, she even hopped the fence with the boys to nick apples from old Mr. Higgins’ orchard. Dolls? Boring. Hair ribbons and frilly dresses? Pointless. She’d rather be in the garage with her dad, fiddling with spanners and bolts, tidying up his tools—though he always grumbled, “Em, love, your ‘tidying’ means I can’t find a thing! Hand us the 13-millimetre spanner, will you?” And she would, quick as anything. He’d praise her, and she’d glow with pride.
Sophie? The exact opposite. Dressed like a porcelain doll—always in spotless frocks, white knee-socks with tassels, hair in gigantic bows. Emily hated those dresses, all ruffles and flounces.
Rebecca’s voice was a constant refrain:
“Sophie, don’t touch the sandpit, you’ll dirty your socks! Step away from the door, there’s a draught! Don’t pick up that apple—it’s filthy, germs everywhere!”
Emily couldn’t stand it. Aunt Rebecca was unbearable when it came to Sophie. Never let her do a thing. Even popping round the corner was forbidden—”Stay here, sweetheart. There are stray dogs out there, rough boys, heaven knows what! Let Emily go if she likes.”
Honestly, I felt sorry for Sophie.
“Aunt Rebecca, let her come with me. No one’ll bother her,” Emily would argue.
But Rebecca would just narrow her eyes. “Absolutely not.”
At school, Emily threw herself into athletics, played for the netball team, even took up kickboxing later on. Rebecca nearly fainted when she found out.
“Since when do proper young ladies do such things?” she’d huff.
“Let her do what she enjoys,” Natalie would say. “She’ll make her own way in life.”
Meanwhile, Sophie was packed off to piano lessons, ballroom dancing, even art classes—though she hated drawing and gave it up straight away.
At uni, Emily met Jack at the kickboxing club. He wasn’t classically handsome, but there was something about him—easy grin, warm eyes.
“Alright?” he’d said, sidling up to her. “Been watching you—you’re proper good at this. Name’s Jack. Heard yours is Emily.”
She’d laughed. “You’ve done your homework, then. Don’t think I’ve seen you on campus?”
“Nah, I’m at tech college—motor mechanics. Work at a garage part-time.”
After that, they were inseparable. Training together, walks in the park, nights at the cinema. Shared interests, shared laughs.
“Mum, Dad—bringing Jack round tomorrow. Met his mum already. Time you met him.”
“Right then,” they’d said.
Jack got on famously with her parents, especially her dad. They nattered about engines, cars, football—her dad chuffed to bits Jack was a mechanic and studying engineering.
A year later, Emily dropped the news: “We’re getting a flat together.”
Natalie wasn’t thrilled. “Love, you’re still at uni—focus on your studies!”
But her dad backed her. He liked Jack. Whenever they visited, the two of them vanished into the garage, tinkering with his old Rover.
When Rebecca found out? Well.
“Natalie! How could you let Emily live with some boy like that? It’s disgraceful!”
Natalie just shrugged. “What’s the fuss?”
Then, a year later, Sophie did the same—moved in with some bloke named Oliver. Older, posh, finishing his second degree. Handsome, clever. Rebecca bragged about him non-stop. “Oh, my Sophie’s got such a catch! So refined, so cultured, such lovely manners!” Never mind they weren’t married.
Sophie’s birthday came round, and Emily and Jack were invited. Emily didn’t fancy it—listening to Rebecca gush over Oliver—but didn’t want to cause a scene.
Oliver was just as described: charming, witty, the life of the party. Compliments flowed like wine—which he kept topping up.
*Blimey, Sophie’s landed a good one,* Emily thought, glancing at Jack, sat quietly, looking awkward. *Why’s he just sitting there like a lump?*
But an hour in, Emily’s head throbbed. Oliver wouldn’t shut up, louder with every glass.
*Christ, he’s doing my head in.*
Rebecca left. “You youngsters carry on—I’m off.”
Later, Emily’s opinion shifted.
*God, he’s like a chatterbox on legs. All hot air. Couldn’t stand this every day.* She looked at Jack—quiet, steady, even after a pint or two.
Then Oliver staggered up, swayed toward the bedroom, and collapsed. Moments later:
“Sophieeeee! Get us some water—I’m dying here!”
“Shouldn’ve drunk so much,” Sophie shot back.
“Shut it, you cow!”
“Get it yourself!” Sophie snapped—but fetched the water anyway.
Emily was stunned. Neither seemed embarrassed. Jack looked horrified.
Oliver reappeared, dishevelled, chugged a lager in one go, then lurched to the loo before passing out snoring.
“Right, we’re off,” Emily said hastily.
Next time was Oliver’s birthday. Same routine—charming at first, then drunk, rude, and asleep by nine.
*What a prince,* Emily thought dryly. *Thank God he’s not mine. Jack might not be some smooth-talking charmer, but he’s real. No pretence, no vanishing act after a few drinks. Just solid, kind—mine.*
Emily and Jack married last year. A little one on the way now.
Sophie? She dumped Oliver.
Funny, that. All that polish, all that charm—meant nothing in the end.
Moral of the story? Flashy packaging doesn’t always mean quality inside. Give me real over shiny any day.
