Dear Diary,
The children I raised have already picked out a plot for me in the graveyard. Theres one thing they dont knowa secret that may well sadden them.
I was fortyfive when I married. Margaret, the woman I chose to spend my life with, already had three children. Her first marriage had fallen apart, leaving her with nothing but the youngsters and a couple of battered suitcases. I owned a modest semidetached house in York, bought with years of hard work and a tidy nestegg. I didnt pause for a moment: Bring the kids, they can live here with us. Well be a family.
At first it was far from easy. Three youngsters, each with his own temperament, quirks and fears. The eldest argued constantly, the middle one wept over the slightest thing, and the youngest clung to his mother as if she were his lifeline. I did what I couldmended broken toys, drove them to school, bought clothes whenever my wages allowed. I never labelled them as my or her children; to me they were simply ours.
Then tragedy struck. Margaret fell ill and passed away. I was left alone with three kids, unsure how to be a father when I wasnt their blood relation. People said, Give them to relatives; you owe them nothing. But I couldnt. They had grown accustomed to my presence, and I to theirs. I raised them as best I could, on my own.
Years slipped by. They grew up, moved away, started their own families. At first they called, visited, then the contact grew sparse. Now they hardly appear, only on holidaysand even then, more out of habit than affection. Im aging, my health is failing, and only recently did I stumble upon the fact that they had already earmarked a spot for me in the churchyard, as if they were waiting for my departure.
What hurts the most is that I gave them a home, care, food, love. In their memory Im probably just the convenient old man with a house. No gratitude, no genuine involvement.
There is, however, something they do not know. Every morning my neighbour, Mrs. Hughes, a plainspoken woman from down the road, drops by. Sometimes she brings fresh bread, sometimes a bit of her own tea. She asks how I feel, not for money or inheritance but simply out of kindness. When I ran a fever, she called a doctor herself and stayed until I fell asleep. Thats when I realised that closeness isnt a matter of blood but of humanity.
So I have decided: the house where the children grew up, everything I have saved, everything I have cherishedI will leave it to her. Not to those who are only waiting for my death, but to the one who ever asked, How are you today?
It may sound harsh, but I feel no guilt. I gave the children all I could. Gratitude cant be demanded; it can only be recognised when it appears. Now my conscience is at peace. I know I am doing the right thing.
Let the world judge if it wishes. But tell me, does it truly matter who is written on a deed as son or daughter when they arent there in a crisis? Isnt the person who extends a hand when you cant stand yourself the one who matters?
I have made my choice. My legacy will follow conscience, not blood.
What do you think? Who truly deserves the love, time and what remains after us the children who have drifted away, or those who have stayed close, even if they were once strangers?
