**Diary Entry: The Weight of Fate**
So much depends on the twists of fate. People often make their own lives unbearable, but in time, they learn that forgiveness, understanding, and love can set things right. Charlotte was an only child, and though her parents doted on her, she often felt lonely.
When she married Edward and discovered they were expecting twins, her joy was indescribable.
*At least my children will never feel alone—they’ll always have each other*, she thought, and the warmth of that idea carried her through the months.
Soon, the doctor confirmed they were having girls. Edward had secretly hoped for a son, but the moment little Amelia and Beatrice were placed in his arms, all other wishes vanished. The girls were identical, endlessly confounding him.
“Charlotte, how on earth do you tell them apart?” he’d groan, watching his wife effortlessly distinguish between them by some imperceptible sign.
“They have their differences,” she’d laugh, guiding him to the one he’d missed at feeding time.
Love for his daughters never wavered, but the exhaustion did. Charlotte, worn thin by the endless cycle of meals, nappies, and tantrums, longed for a moment’s peace.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she snapped one evening. “I haven’t a moment to myself. Couldn’t you take some time off?”
“Darling, you know I can’t—not now. We need the money, and I’m the only one working,” Edward replied, though guilt gnawed at him. He did what he could—after work, he’d take the girls to the park, or if the weather was foul, entertain them indoors while Charlotte rested.
Then, one evening, he returned home to shattered wails. Rushing in, he found Charlotte sprawled on the sofa, drunk. He soothed the girls, fed them, and waited until they were asleep before confronting her.
“What were you thinking? They were crying, and you didn’t even hear them!”
“I needed to unwind!” she shot back. “Try living my life—trapped in this house, never a moment’s rest. A glass or two of wine, and I was out cold.”
Edward believed her—she *was* exhausted—but this wasn’t the answer. “This can’t happen again,” he warned.
But it did. More often than not, he’d come home to a tipsy wife and neglected children. Charlotte’s demands for respite grew louder, her drinking heavier. No reasoning reached her. By the time the girls turned four, Edward filed for divorce, hoping to keep them from their mother’s spiraling habits.
The court ruled otherwise—one child to each parent. Amelia stayed with Charlotte; Beatrice went with Edward. The separation shattered them all, but there was no choice. Edward moved to his parents’ home, where Beatrice thrived under their care, her grief fading with time.
Amelia’s life, however, darkened. Charlotte, sinking deeper into drink, filled the girl’s head with poison.
“You can thank your father for this—he tore you and Beatrice apart,” she’d sneer.
Amelia grew up bitter, wearing hand-me-downs, watching enviously as other children played with their parents in the park. When she begged to live with her father, Charlotte spun lies—Edward had abandoned them, whisked Beatrice away with promises of dolls. Amelia swallowed the tale whole, her hatred festering.
Years passed. Beatrice, now eighteen, studied at university, loved by Edward and his second wife, Eleanor. They’d built a comfortable life—a countryside home, a thriving business. Beatrice wanted for nothing.
Amelia, at seventeen, bounced between older men, falling pregnant at eighteen. The man gave her money to “sort it out,” then vanished. When Charlotte fell ill, Amelia, desperate, sought out Edward.
She found his home—grand, immaculate—and knocked. Beatrice answered, her mirror image, polished and poised. Shocked, Beatrice embraced her, ushering her inside.
Amelia forced a smile, bitterness churning as she took in her sister’s life—designer clothes, university talk. She spun her mother’s lies, accusing Edward of abandonment. Beatrice set the record straight—their father had grieved for Amelia every day.
Guilt and shame overwhelmed Amelia. That night, she stole jewellery and cash, but couldn’t bring herself to leave. When Beatrice found her weeping on the floor, she gathered her in her arms.
“I wanted to hurt you,” Amelia confessed. “I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Beatrice whispered.
When Edward returned, he welcomed Amelia without hesitation. “Stay. Get an education. We’ll help your mother.”
Time healed wounds. The sisters grew close, both graduating, both falling in love—with twin brothers, no less. On their wedding day, Edward made one request—different dresses.
“Just in case I mix up my girls on the big day,” he laughed.
Fate had torn them apart, but love—patient, forgiving—stitched them back together.
