**Diary Entry 12th November**
*”We have to give him up. Hes not what we wanted.”* Thats what Thomas said the moment I held our son. My arms tightened around the tiny bundle. *”This is our child!”*
*”Are you blind?”* He recoiled from the cot as if it held something vile. *”Look at him.”*
The hospital room, smelling of antiseptic and formula, suddenly felt like a coffin. My boythe one Id carried for nine months through sickness and fearslept peacefully, his tiny hand peeking from the blanket. Imperfect. *Beautiful.* I covered his misshapen fingers with mine. The warmth of his skin was a vow: *I will never leave you.*
*”We dont need a cripple,”* Thomas muttered, his breath sour with last nights whiskey. *”There are homes for this. Well try again.”*
Something inside me shatteredthe last fragment of *”happily ever after.”*
*”Youre talking about your own blood.”* My voice was ice.
*”Not mine.”* He shrugged, discarding the weight. *”No son of mine would be a freak.”*
Rain hammered the windows of our old Rover on the drive home. The drops drummed a funeral march for our dreams. Thomas gripped the wheel; I cradled the car seat.
*”The nurserys ready,”* Mum broke the silence. *”Cribs by your bed. Nappies are pressed.”*
I couldnt look away from his round cheeks. That perfect nose. Those lashes. *My miracle.*
*”His names William. After Grandad.”* I caught Thomas wiping his eye in the rearview mirror.
The village welcomed us with a gale. Dad unfurled an umbrella-tent over Wills pram. Home smelled of fresh bread and woodsmoke.
That night, listening to his uneven breaths, I swore to the stars: *”Ill make him happy. Teach him never to be ashamed.”*
Five years later, Will sat on the porch, tongue poking out as his stubborn fingers battled coat buttons. *”Ill do it!”* he huffed, slapping my hand away. Five minutes later*”Did it!”* Triumph.
Life became a string of small victories. Pre-dawn market runs. Late nights at the sewing machine. The steady *thunk* of Dad teaching him to chop wood: *”A mans strength isnt in his hands, boy. Its in his spine. Stand tall, like an oak.”*
At seven, he came home tight-lipped. *”They called me Hook.”*
*”So I said hooks are for fish,”* he muttered, making me hide a proud grin.
By fourteen, the old PC in the shed was his universe. One night, green code glowing, he called me: *”Mum, look! I wrote a program!”*
Mum grumbled about late hours, but Dad roared with laughter: *”Let him tinker! Hes a proper little Brunel!”*
Fate seemed to smileuntil the phone rang one autumn morning.
At sixteen, he handed me crumpled noteshis first earnings from a local shops website. *”For groceries. For Gran and Grandad.”* His back straightened with pride.
Hed grown like a saplingquiet but unyielding. His voice deepened, echoing Dads rumble. Only his eyes stayed the same: sharp, noticing what others missed.
One evening, listening to his keyboard clack, my chest ached. The city would call him someday. *”Cant sleep?”* Dad settled beside me, adjusting his tartan blanket.
*”Im scared to let him go,”* I admitted, as if he were still that baby.
Dad gazed at the stars. *”Dont clip his wings. Eagles need sky. But they remember the nest.”*
On his eighteenth birthday, a courier brought sleek computers. *”Client in London sent them. Remote work.”*
Our quiet life spiraled into change. High-speed internet. A fridge with a touchscreen. He spoke of *”interfaces”* and *”algorithms”* like spells. My boy was the familys pillar.
*”Check your account,”* he said once. *”Buy yourself a dress.”*
*”Why?”* I fiddled with my apron.
He smiled, eyes like forest pools behind his glasses. *”You deserve more than old jumpers.”*
The sum made me grip the chair. Then came the real shock: builders arrived, lasers scanning our walls. *”Explain!”* I demanded.
Will twisted an applehis childhood tell. *”The roof leaks. Foundations cracked. Winter draughts.”*
*”How?”* I still couldnt fathom itmy boy, earning more than the whole street.
*”Im on a dev team,”* he flushed. *”Building an app for millions.”*
Dad clapped his back. *”Atta boy! Homes are roots. Without em, youre a tree on rock.”*
All summer, hammers sang. New roof. Double-glazed windows. A study like Mission Control. A ramp for Grans tired knees.
*”Why not move to the city?”* I asked as he adjusted the satellite dish.
He shielded his eyes from the sun, hair tied in a messy knot. *”Why? The quiets here. This is home.”*
At dusk, we sipped tea on the new deck. Dad whittled wood; Gran dozed under a crocheted blanket. I flipped through a glossy magazinehis gift.
*”Ran into John Stephens,”* Dad said suddenly. *”Said Thomas guards the market now. Drunk as a skunk.”*
My breath caught. Wills fingers paused on the keyboard.
*”Asked after you,”* Dad added. *”Said his grandson grew up proper.”*
Will lifted his headno anger, just calm. *”Sent money to the childrens home. New roof. New computers.”*
Silence thickened like honey. I studied himreally studied himas if seeing wings unfurl.
Sunset painted the sky peach. Our house, sturdy and renewed, stood sentinel over the fields.
*”Thank you,”* Will said softly. *”You taught me how to be a man. Now I build homes. Next, a wife.”*
Dad pretended to fuss with wood shavings. Gran dabbed her eyes. I didnt bother hiding my tears.
In my chest bloomed something as solid as oak. My son had rooted here, in this soil, these walls. Love had outlasted every storm.
Dad was right. True strength isnt in the bodyits what you grow in the heart.
