**Diary Entry**
Good morning, my love.
He woke up, as always, a minute before the alarm. A habit left over from his army days. Rolling off the bed onto the floor, eyes still closed, he pushed himself up a few times. The blood rushed pleasantly through him, chasing away the last traces of sleep.
“Ill go wake the lads, Jane.”
The “lads”his ten-year-old twin sonswere asleep in the next room. Two smaller versions of him, mouths slightly open as if sharing the same dream. The heating had been acting up all night, so he decided against their usual morning run. He didnt have the heart to wake them early. Instead, he lingered, admiring their growing frames.
At their age, hed been the complete oppositescrawny, awkward, hunched. Timid, which his peers mistook for cowardice. Schoolwork came easily, but the taunts of classmates didnt. He never fought back; he knew he was weaker. In P.E., he tried his best, but the coachs sneers crushed his spirit. As for sports clubs, his mother was firm:
“I didnt raise a bright, bookish boy just for him to go around breaking noses.”
His shyness held him back there too, so his dream of becoming strong lost another round. Truthfully, his mother rarely showed such firmnessshe was usually all warmth and care. Maybe too much. It was why hed fled to the army straight after school. Two years later, he returned lean, disciplined, a promising athlete. The bookish, timid boy had become a solid contender for a boxing titlemuch to his mothers dismay and his sports colleges delight.
University opened a new life: competitions, dormitories, new friends. And a new problemgirls. Even with his boxing success, his old shyness remained. Asking a girl out, even just talking to one at twenty, felt no easier than at ten. Until *she* appeared.
Jane was the rising star of the college. A champion diver, slender, with fair hair and green eyes. Clever, smiling, but quietas if her mind was elsewhere. They called her “The Dreamer.” They became friends instantly.
With her, everything was easy. They could walk for hours without a word, cheer each other at matches. After their first kiss, he proposed straight away.
Their weddingdubbed “The Dreamers Union”was celebrated by their whole year. People loved them for their kindness, their openness.
A year later, Jane took a breakpregnancy. He started working evenings at Kings Cross, hauling cargo. Oddly, it was then he first felt truly strongnot from lifting crates, but from knowing he *could*. Hed provide. Hed raise his children. He was strong, and he had her.
Jane was nervous, but the doctor reassured her. “The only bad news I have is if you dont like childrenyoure getting two at once.”
At night, theyd dream togetherimagining their children grown, the seaside house theyd buy. But thats what nights are for: dreaming.
The day before the birth, she took his hand and whispered, eyes locked on his, “Promise me, no matter what, you wont leave them.”
He was stunned. Almost offended. But seeing her face, he just nodded.
The next day, the labour began. It was long, brutal. She was unconscious for hours, the doctors scrambling to stop the bleeding. By the time they understood, it was too late.
He doesnt remember that night. It passed in a haze. He woke at dawn on Kings Cross, lying in a puddle, head pounding, stomach churning. The alcohol still burned, but one thought sobered him instantly: *Theyre waiting.*
He graduated well but quit competitions. The sports council gave him a flat, where he moved with the “lads.” At first, his mother helped, then the boys grew, and it was just the three of them. He coached at local clubs, but once they started school, he took a job there. Still went to Kings Crossa P.E. teachers pay being what it isbut no longer hauling crates. These days, he supervised.
Life settled, but inside, the weight never lifted. He wanted to talk, but without Jane, he felt mute.
For a while, friends tried setting him up. He couldnt last an hour. One would glance like Jane, another would tuck her hair the same way…
Eventually, he started talking to her at night. At first, it angered himspeaking to emptiness. Then he got used to it. Sharing, asking advice.
Like last nightthe boys bragged about acing their exams.
“I told them men dont boast. That they should be ashamed *not* to get top marks.” But inside, he swelled with pride. “Theyre growing up right, Jane. Clever, strong, kind My old army coach used to say, Courage is the art of being scared stiffand not showing it. But Im scared to praise them too much, to seem soft. Ive never even told them I love them But they know, dont they?”
For a second, his throat tightened. He almost got up, almost went to hug them, to say the words. But it was night. He didnt want to wake them.
The kitchen was chilly. He checked the thermometer: minus five. A dry winter. Shame about the lack of snow. Outside, an elderly woman from the second floor swept the courtyard. Was she talking to herself?
The “lads” burst in. The elderborn five minutes soonerstarted the tea. The younger set a pan on the stovehis turn to cook breakfast.
Then, a nudge. Awkwardly, they approached, hugged him.
“Dad We know you talk to Mum sometimes. Tell her We dont remember her much, but we love her. A lot. And we love you too.”
