I was young when I first crossed paths with that scoundrel. In a misty haze, he swirled through my dreams, the perfect English gentlemanoffering gentility, drowning me in compliments, handling every moment as though he were some knight of old. Yet when hed fulfilled his hidden wishes, he faded from my world as if evaporated in the London fog. Our parting left me desolate, shattered in that strange, floating way that dreams sometimes are, and I had no inkling of the consequences our encounters would bring. Stunned and sleepless, I drifted about the city until, one morning, I realised I was expecting a child.
At first, trust in my mother seemed as distant as the ringing of Big Ben across the riverunreachable, echoing somewhere I couldnt go. Still, my swelling belly became a secret I could no longer conceal, a burden growing ever more tangible; by then, already four months along, I had no choice but to confess. My mothers nervous hands dialed father instantly. Father sent only pointed accusations and icy disappointment, while my mother whispered wishes shed never brought me into this world at all.
Driven by dreadfearful that wed be the talk of our Sussex villagemy parents pressed me to end the pregnancy, heedless of the toll it would take on my own well-being. With hesitation, I agreed. For days after, bitter tears haunted my sleep; in my dream-life, I wandered empty corridors, the walls echoing a childs laughter Id never know. Still, I ask God for forgivenessfor what I have done. My existence paused, suspendedsometimes I welcomed the idea of true oblivion, not just the death of hope but life itself. My parents, however, moved on untouched, their concerns only circling around the protection of their good name.
Two years drifted by in greyscale. I finally slipped away from the oppressive quiet of their home, like a cat sliding out a half-open door. I finished my studies in Manchester, built myself a career in Londons glass towersmaterial success piling up around me, strange and insubstantial as stacks of pound notes melting in the rain.
In the end, I accomplished what I had once only let myself imagine in midnight reverie. Yet the one wish beyond reachfamilyalways shimmered on the other side of the looking glass. It hovered, as elusive as summer sunlight in England. Id lost the chance to be a mother long ago. Suitors came and went, proposing beneath umbrellas or beside roaring fires, but the moment my infertility was whispered, they disappeared wordlessly into the mist. My parents bear that guilt; it was they who denied me the sweet joy of motherhood. I have no desire to speak to them, to see them even fleetingly at Christmas.
When, one dream-like autumn day, Father collapsed with a heart attack, and Mother pleaded for my helpher voice fragile as old parchmentI refused. They turned away from me, and I hold them responsible. Each month, I send them money, a stack of crisp pounds posted perfunctorily, as if to buy relief for my conscience. Still, I vow not to inflict such sorrow on any daughter of mine. In England, parents should lift their children up in their moments of need, not let them drift alone through cold evening rain. My parents, blinded by their reputation, never saw the happiness they drained from my lifenever saw the garden they let wither in their care.
