**Diary Entry**
Today was my first day as a cleaner, and I never expected what happened. Ive just moved to London with my best friend, Abigailboth of us dreaming of West End fame. But for now, Im scrubbing floors to pay the rent. The agency sent me to a posh townhouse in Kensington, owned by an older man named Edward Whitmore.
I told myself, *”Just do a proper job, Sophie,”* as I let myself in with the key under the doormat. The place wasnt filthy, just a bit dusty. I started in the kitchen, then the sitting room, before hesitating at the study door. No one said I couldnt go in, so I didcareful not to touch the papers on the desk.
Thats when I saw it. Above the fireplace, among a few framed photos, was one of my mother. Younger, but unmistakably her. My stomach lurched. *Why would Mums picture be here?*
Then he walked in. Edwardtall, greying, polite. “Ah, you must be the new cleaner. Nearly done?” he asked.
I pointed to the photo. “Sorry, but who is this?”
He frowned, then smiled sadly. “Thats Margaret. The love of my life. She died years ago in a coach crashpregnant at the time. Her mother barred me from the funeral. Never got over it.”
My hands shook. “Thats impossible. My mums name is Margaret. Shes alive. *Im* alive.”
Edward went pale. “Where did you grow up?”
“Manchester,” I whispered.
He staggered back. “Margarets from Manchester.”
We called her right then. When she answered, Edwards voice cracked. “Margaret, its Edward.”
Silence. Then, coldly: “Edward who?”
“Edward Harris. Youyou were supposed to be dead. Your mother told me youd died!”
MARGARET: “What? *She* told *me* youd left me!”
Turns out, my grandmother lied to both of them. For years, Mum thought hed abandoned her, and Edward mourned her as dead.
When I finally spoke, Mum gasped. “Sophie? What are you doing there?”
“Long story,” I said. “But I think Ive just met my father.”
Shes coming down to London soon. Edward*Dad*kept staring at me like I was a ghost.
All this because I ran away from home. Mum never wanted me to chase this life. She suffocated me with worry, just like Gran suffocated *her* with lies.
Maybe the lesson is this: dont clip your childrens wings. Guide them, but let them fly. And for Gods sake, dont meddle in love. Grans deceit cost twenty years of happiness.
Now Ive got a father, a still-furious mother, and a West End dream to chase. Bloody hell.
