13October2025
Dear Diary,
My favourite place in the house was the big old oak wardrobe that stood in the corner of the bedroom we share with Mum and Dad. The doors were heavy for my small hands and they creaked and groaned every time I opened them. Inside I shoved my simple toysa teddy bear with a torn ear, a clown in a huge blueandred cap that Mum had given me for Christmas, and a plastic horse. Yes, a horse.
The horse had once been glossy black with a mane the colour of a ravens wing. Over the years the black plastic cracked and faded in the sun, but the mane stayed mostly intact. I loved that horse and would often give it a sprig of grass.
The wardrobe was my secret world, my very own Narnia, where true wonders happened. The clown became a knight who rode the trusty horse and defended a lovely princess from an angry bear. What happened after the knightclown won his battles I never figured out, because at the most exciting moments my Gran would start looking for me.
I was always terrified of Gran. Her hands were forever dirty and knotted from the garden, her face was lined like freshly ploughed soil, and her voice was sharp and loud, like our dog Rexs bark when he was hoarse from spending the whole year in the garden shed.
I felt sorry for Rex, especially in winter when the fierce February wind threatened to rip the shutters from their hinges and a blizzard piled snow over the shed almost completely. One particularly cold night I slipped out of the house in my flannel pajamas covered with bears, my socks pulled up, and crept through the drifts to rescue the dog. Halfway there Mums voice called after me, followed by Grans angry shout.
Mum stood on the doorstep in her coat, peering into the darkness, and called:
Harry, where are you?
From behind her, Gran rattled:
Get back, you scamp! Where are you crawling, you fool! All that because of your daft old man, the one whos always off on his lorry!
The lorry driver was never home his job was too important. I never really understood what a longhaul driver was, but I guessed it must be something more important than me, because Dad only came home rarely, gave me a pat on the back, asked hows it going? and went straight to bed.
Gran called him the roadgranddad, and Mum would smile and say:
Never mind, love, well manage. Youre my little sunshine, already a big boy. Look what I have for you. Its Dads watch, just like an adults. Hell be back when the little and big hands line up at the bottom and the little window shows the date 12. Remember that, and dont lose it.
I was proud to own Dads watch, just like a grownup. Still, I felt a bit embarrassed watching my mate Freddie Jones bounce around with his father on Sunday mornings, both with fishing rods Dad with a massive spin, Freddie with a tiny rod and a bucket that never seemed to catch anything.
Even sixyearold Emily, who I honestly thought a bit slow because she still couldnt read, still managed to sit in her fathers white Ford Fiesta every Sunday and go to the market. I could already read shop signs like Pharmacy and Optics at five, even if I didnt quite grasp the difference.
I dreamed that one day Dad would sit me beside him in his big lorry, and wed travel together on mens business. But on the few rare days he was home, he was never in the mood for me; we argued with Mum, Mum wept, Gran fussed, Dad slammed doors and went out to smoke. I hid in my beloved wardrobe, clutching my trusty teddy, and cried. Real men dont cry, they say, but neither the bear nor the clown will ever tell anyone. That secret stayed between me and the wardrobe.
That afternoon was Mums birthday. I was racing home from the back garden when I stopped dead in my tracks. Across the pavement stood Dad, arminarm with a young woman in a red dress, laughing. In his hand glimmered a massive bouquet of roses, so big and beautiful it stole my breath away.
For Mum! I thought, Its her birthday, it must be for her! My heart fluttered with joy.
In the evening Mum and Gran set the table: steaming potatoes fresh from the oven, a wobbling jelly in delicate glasses, crisp pickles from the cellar, and a huge cake iced with pink roses. One rose was missing, thoughI had taken it early, unable to resist. When the guests finally sat down, Dad returned, this time holding a modest bunch of white chrysanthemums wrapped in grey paper. Mums eyes lit up; she embraced him at the neck and giggled like a little girl.
I swallowed, ready to ask where the first roses had gone, but I only stared at Mum in her new pink dress, cheeks flushed from happiness or perhaps from dancing, and said nothing.
Later I slipped back into the dark wardrobe, among the teddy and the clown, and twirled Dads watch on my wrist. The hands were frozen, as if time itself had stopped. I tried to shake them, to no avail. Tears rose, but I didnt let them fall. It became clear: crying now would be useless. I was no longer that little boy waiting for a lorry driver to appear on the road.
I placed the watch back on the shelf between the teddy and the clown and gently closed the wardrobe doors. My Narnia now held no more miracles.
Mum sang softly while unwrapping presents. I went over, wrapped my arms around her waist, and felt her shiver a little.
Im with you, Mum, I whispered firmly. Ill always be with you.
Tonight I realise that the magic we seek isnt in toys or watches, but in the moments we share with the people who love us. The real lesson is that growing up means accepting that some things change, but the love that remains is what truly keeps the world turning.
Harry.
