Dear Diary,
It was a dreadful mistake I made at Christmas, or so I keep telling myself. I thought I was doing everything right. I laced up my sturdy black boots, the kind the army used to issue, pulled on my heavy wool coat and a knitted cap, then slipped into the drivers seat of my old Land Rover and drove out to a place I now refer to as a fools errand.
My name is Margaret Hawthorne, a widow who bore my only son, Thomas, late in life. For thirty years it has been just the two of us, and I have loved him beyond measure. Everything I worked for, every penny I saved, was for his future. When Thomas met a girl from his university hallMaudand they soon had a child, my world shifted again.
I have always known how people think. I sensed that Maud, with her bright eyes, wanted to take Thomas away from me and lay claim to my hardwon estate. So I set off to find her, determined to either frighten her or bribe herwhichever would work. I needed to wrench Thomas from the grip of a girl who was already speaking of weddings.
My face, they say, could rival a bulldogslined, scarred, with a stubborn set to the jaw. My eyes burned with a fierce, almost animal, intensity, like a hound on the hunt. I was a large woman, as imposing as the statues that watch over Trafalgar Square. On the road I bought a few apples, some pears, and a small rattling toy for a childafter all, it was still a festive season, and I needed a reason to start a conversation. Were not beasts, after all, not jaguars prowling the night.
I rang the doorbell and entered the modest flat, shedding my boots and coat. I greeted Maud warmly, intending to launch into a stern speech, when I saw a tiny cot in the corner. A little boy, his hair a soft mop of gold, lay there. He was called Peter, as Maud whispered shyly.
She trembled, perhaps at the thought of me, and I could see the fear in her eyes. I approached the cot, laid the rattling toy in the childs hand, and the moment it touched his fingers the boy burst into a delighted laugh that made me startle. He clutched the toy tightly, his tiny feet dancing in his socks as he balanced on the cots raillike a miniature jig, his eyes never leaving mine. He squealed with joy, utterly enthralled, and I felt an odd surge of affection for him.
Peter reached out, tugged at my sleeves, his mouth opening wide, teeth flashing like tiny pearls. In that instant I made my fatal mistake: I scooped the little boy up, instinctively. He clung to me with a strength that surprised me, his small hand patting my cheek, his toy lightly tapping my forehead as if to say something.
Then I found my voice, a soft, almost choked one, babbling nonsense: Whos this little sweet thing? Whos this tiny cherub? My heart swelled, warm and sweet, as if a candle had been lit inside my chest. Peters bright eyes never left mine, his tiny fingers gripping me tighter, as if hed never known anything else but love. The scent of his happinesspure, innocentfilled the room, like the imagined perfume of angels.
I didnt want to put him back. I would have given the world for that little bundle of joy. I felt love strike me like a bolt. Tears welled up and slipped down the creases of my face.
Soon after, I demanded Thomas to marry Maud, though he had already spoken his heart. He loved both Maud and little Peter, and with my threats and promises, I persuaded the young couple to move into my large house. I never meddle much in their affairs; they live peacefully enough, but my attention now revolves entirely around Peter. We cannot be apart; we are bound by a tender, fierce love.
So a womanmemade a dreadful mistake, perhaps a blessing in disguise. I discovered my unexpected Christmas gift: a childs innocent joy. Christmas is a special day, and its gifts, too, are special indeed.
Margaret.
