**Diary Entry**
This morning, like always, I woke up a minute before the alarm. An old habit from my army days. Still half-asleep, I rolled off the bed and did a few push-ups on the floor, the blood rushing through me, shaking off the last remnants of drowsiness.
“Best go wake the lads, Helen.”
The “lads”my ten-year-old twin boyswere asleep in the next room. Two smaller versions of me, mouths slightly open as if sharing the same dream. The heating had been dodgy all night, so Id decided against our usual morning run and let them sleep in. I paused, just looking at them, their frames already sturdy, nothing like I was at their age.
Back then, I was the oppositescrawny, awkward, slouched. Shy, which the other boys mistook for cowardice. Schoolwork came easy; the taunts from classmates didnt. I never fought backI knew I was weaker. In PE, I tried my hardest, but the coachs sneering killed any motivation. As for sports clubs? Mum was firm: “I didnt raise a clever boy just for him to go around breaking noses.”
The shyness stuck. The dream of being strong lost that round. Mum wasnt usually so sternmostly, she was all warmth and softness. So much so that I bolted straight into the army after school. Two years later, I came back lean, trained, a promising athlete. The timid boy had turned into a solid contender for a boxing championship. Much to Mums dismayand the delight of the sports institute that snapped me up.
University was a new lifecompetitions, dorm living, new mates. And a new problem: girls. Not even boxing victories could shake my shyness. Asking one out at twenty felt no easier than at ten. Until *she* came along.
Helen was the rising star of the institutea diving champion, tall, fair-haired, green-eyed. Clever, smiling, but quiet, like she wasnt quite of this world. They called her “The Alien.” We became friends instantly.
We could walk for hours without a word. Cheered for each other at matches. After our first kiss, I proposed straightaway.
The whole course celebrated the “Martian Wedding.” People loved us for our openness, our lack of malice.
A year later, Helen took a breakpregnant. I started night shifts at Kings Cross, hauling cargo. Oddly, thats when I first *felt* strong. Not from the weight of the sacks, but from knowing: I could do anything. Provide for my family. Raise my kids. I was strong, and I had her.
Helen worried, but the doctor reassured hereverything was fine. Even joked, “Only one thing might upset youif you dont like kids, its twice as bad. Youre having twins.”
At night, wed dream aloud. The lives our children would have. The house by the sea wed buy. But nights made for dreaming.
The day before the birth, she took my hand, looked me in the eye, and said, “Promise meno matter whatyou wont leave them.”
I was stunned. Almost offended. But her eyes stopped me. I just nodded.
The next day, the labour started. It dragged on, brutal. She was unconscious for nearly a day. The bleedingno one could find the cause until it was too late.
What happened that night? A blur. I woke at dawn on Kings Cross, sprawled in a puddle. Head pounding, stomach churning. Still drunk, but one thought sobered me instantly: *Two are waiting.*
I finished uni well, but competitions were over. The sports board gave me a flatour home now. Mum helped at first. Then the boys grew, and it was just us three. I coached at a local club, but once they started school, I switched to teaching there. Still went to Kings Crosswhats a PE teachers wage worth? Not hauling sacks anymore, though. Shift supervisor these last few years.
Slowly, things settled. But inside? Still heavy. Like I had so much to say, but without Helen, I was mute.
Friends tried setting me up. Couldnt last an hour. One would glance like her. Another would tuck her hair the same way…
Then I started talking to her at night. Angry at firstwhy speak if I couldnt *feel* her? Then it became habit. Sharing. Asking. Like last nightthe boys bragged about acing a test.
“I told them men dont boast. That its shameful not to aim for top marks. But God, I was proud. Theyre turning out clever. Strong. Kind My old army trainer used to say, ‘Courage is the art of hiding your fear.’ So I hold back. Never tell them I love them. But they know, dont they, Helen?”
For a moment, I nearly cracked. Almost went to hug them, say it aloud. But it was night. Didnt want to wake them.
The kitchens chilly this morning. Thermometer reads minus five. Good winterdry. Just needs snow. Outside, the old woman from the second floor sweeps the courtyard. Is she talking to herself?
The lads burst in. The elderby five minutesstarts the tea. The younger heats the panhis turn to cook.
Then one nudges the other. Awkwardly, they come over, wrap their arms around me.
“Dad… We know you talk to Mum sometimes. Tell her we dont remember much… but we love her. So much. And you too, Dad.”
