**Diary Entry: A Winters Night That Changed Everything**
I watched the snow fall through the wide attic windows of Morrison Tower, my eyes reflecting the city lights. The digital clock on my desk read 11:47 PM, but I had no intention of going home. At 32, I was used to solitary nights of worka routine that had tripled my parents fortune in just five years.
The financial report on my laptop blurred before my tired eyes. I needed fresh air. Pulling on my cashmere coat, I headed to the garage where my Aston Martin waited. The night was bitterly cold, even for a London December. The cars thermometer showed -5°C, and the forecast warned of dropping temperatures.
I drove aimlessly, letting the hum of the engine soothe me. My thoughts wandered between spreadsheets, market trends, and the loneliness Sara, my housekeeper of over a decade, often chided me about. “You need to let love in,” shed say. But after my last disaster with Victoriaa society woman who cared more for my bank balance than meId sworn off relationships. Before I knew it, I was near Hyde Park.
The park was deserted save for a few maintenance workers under the yellow glow of streetlamps. Thick flakes of snow painted an almost surreal scene. *Maybe a walk will help*, I thought. The icy air stung my face as I stepped out, my Italian shoes sinking into the fresh snow. The crunch underfoot was the only sounduntil I heard it. A faint, desperate noise.
My pulse quickened. It came from the playground, now buried under snow. The swings and slides looked ghostly in the dim light. The sound grew clearerbehind a snow-covered bush, a little girl lay unconscious, her lips a terrifying blue. She couldnt have been more than six, wearing only a thin coat. My breath caught when I saw what she clutched against her chest: two tiny babies.
“God” I dropped to my knees, checking her pulse. Weak, but there. The babies wailed as I wrapped all three in my coat and called Dr. Peterson. “Its an emergency. Ive found three children in the parkones unconscious.” Next, I rang Sara. “Prepare three warm rooms. And call Mrs. Henderson, the nurse who treated my broken arm.”
Carefully, I carried them to the car. The girl was frighteningly light; the twins couldnt have been older than six months. Every few seconds, I checked the rearview mirror. The babies had quieted, but the girl remained still. Questions swarmed my mind: *How did they end up here? Where are their parents?*
Morrison Manor, a grand Georgian estate, loomed ahead. Sara waited at the door, her grey hair in its usual bun. “Good heavens!” she gasped. “The Pink Suite is ready,” she said, guiding me upstairs. Dr. Peterson arrived shortly, diagnosing mild hypothermia. “A few more hours out there…” He didnt finish. Mrs. Henderson tended to the twins, who, miraculously, were better off than their sister. “The older girl mustve shielded them,” the doctor noted.
Around 3 AM, she stirred. Her green eyes flew open in panic. “The babieswhere are they?” she screamed. “Theyre safe,” I assured her. “My name is Jack. Youre in my home.” She trembled, taking in the lavish room. “Lily,” she whispered when I asked her name. “Theyre Emma and Ian. My siblings.”
At the mention of her father, her face twisted in terror. “Hell hurt them again. Dont let him take us back!” Sara and I exchanged a glance. Later, over warm soup, Lilys bruises and hollow cheeks told a story no child should bear. That night, as she slept fitfully, I made a silent vow: *Ill protect them, no matter the cost.*
**Weeks Later**
Lilys nightmares continued, each one revealing more horror. “Mummy didnt fall down the stairs,” she sobbed one night. “*He pushed her.*” My blood ran cold. Private investigator Tom Parker confirmed it: Robert Matthews, her father, was drowning in gambling debts. Clare, her mother, had tried to flee with the childrenonly to meet a “convenient” car crash. Now Robert was after the twins trust fund.
The night he stormed the manor with hired men, I fought like never before. Lilys scream”*Daddy!*”echoed as police swarmed in. Robert, snarling threats, was dragged away in cuffs.
In court, the evidence was damning. The judge granted me full custody. That evening, as I held Lily, she asked, “Are you really our family now?” “Always,” I promised.
Months passed. Robert entered rehab, funded by a secret Morrison family inheritance hed never claimed. Lily, Emma, and Ian thrived. And Saramy rock through it allbecame my wife. On our wedding day, under a spring sun, Lily beamed in her bridesmaid dress while the twins scattered petals. Robert wasnt there, but his giftan album of Clares photosarrived with a note: *”So they never forget her smile.”*
Now, as snow falls again, I watch them build a snowman in the garden. Sara, pregnant with our daughterClaresmiles beside me. Robert, three years sober, asked if the children would attend his graduation. *Maybe*, I think. Because sometimes, the strongest families arent borntheyre chosen. And ours is just beginning.
