**Diary Entry A Lifetime of Waiting**
“Tanya, dont hold it against meI wont be living with you.”
“Couldnt we at least try, Simon?” Tanyas cheeks flushed as she stared at him, barely blinking.
“Ive said all I need to, Tanya.”
Emma Birch was born when Simon was in his first year of school. He remembered her mother, Lauraknown throughout the village as a great beautyher belly swollen with child, and her proud husband, George. Later, Laura would wheel the pram past their gate, and Simon, filled with childish wonder, longed to peek inside.
Time passed. Simon grew older, and little Emma did too. Soon, she was dashing from her parents gate in a bright dress, a large bow pinned to her fair hair. She played with her friends, building makeshift houses near the garden. Simon watched it all from his bedroom window, their house just across the street from the Birches.
“Simon, would you walk Emma to school?” Laura asked one day. He agreed, and for nearly a year, he escorted the first-year pupil. At first, they walked in silence, but Emma soon broke it, chattering about lessons and little adventures. She waited patiently for him when her classes ended early. Sometimes, Simon walked home with his classmates, Emma tagging along. Before long, hed wait for her by the gate each morning, taking her hand as they set off.
The following September, Emma shyly asked if she could walk with her friends instead. From then on, the girls went ahead while Simon trailed behind, watching, ready to step in if needed. And one day, he did. A hissing goose blocked the path, wings flapping, and the girls froze in fear. Simon planted himself between them and the bird, sending them squealing past.
The year after, Simon left for secondary school in the next village, returning only on weekends and holidays. Emma seemed to forget himshed pass by, eyes downcast, never saying hello. Later, he enrolled in a navigation college and came home even less.
“Mum, whos thatEmma?” Simon paused mid-meal as a tall, striking young woman stepped out of the Birches gate.
“Thats our Emma!” His mother smiled through the window.
“When did she grow up like that?” Simon murmured, genuinely surprised.
“Time moves on,” his mother sighed warmly. “Every time I see her, I thinkshe got the best of both her parents.”
He caught glimpses of her after that, grateful for the lace curtains masking his gaze. There she was, balancing buckets on a yoke, the wind tugging at her blouse. Or striding to exams in a smart trouser suit. Simon even toyed with the idea of walking her again.
But the tipping point was her voice. He heard it while helping his father mend the fence”Youd follow that voice to the ends of the earth.”
Then, one day, fetching water from the well, he met her there.
“Hello,” Emma said first, knocking the breath from him.
“Hello, Emma,” Simon managed, oddly flustered. The buckets filled slowly, his mind blank for conversation.
When he left that time, an ache settled in his chest. At last, he admitted ithe was in love.
After his oath and posting, Simon found himself in Portsmouth, a world away from home.
***
The next time he returned, hope buoyed him. Maybe now, hed confess to Emma. She was old enough.
The first day, he slept off the journey. Then his fathers relentless to-do list beganchopping firewood, repairing the barn, rebuilding the bathhouse floor. The fortnight vanished.
Simon stole glances at the Birches gate. Only Laura or George came and went. Emma never appeared.
“Mum, wheres Emma?” he finally asked.
“Gone to university. Lives in the city now.”
So, Simon left empty-handed.
A year later, he saw her just onceand hated it. From behind the curtain, he watched her walk with some lanky village lad, laughing at his jokes, smiling at him with a fondness that twisted Simons gut.
Later, he learned shed married him. They lived in the county town.
Each visit, Simon glimpsed heror worse, heard her voice.
“Simon, stop moping. Youre not a boy anymore,” his mother chided gently.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Plain as day. Find someone in Portsmouthput her out of your mind. You know the saying: The grass is always greener. Dont torture yourself.”
“Trying,” he muttered.
***
Simon visited less. The service sent him to distant posts, and he sought out the hardest assignments, as if punishing himself.
He missed his fathers funeral, arriving only on the ninth day. Four years later, he was late for his mothers. But the village never abandoned its ownneighbours had done everything properly.
Laura met him at the gate, handing over the key. Shed sent the telegram about his mothers death.
The next day, Simon tidied the graves. Then he sorted through years of clutterhis parents never threw anything away. His mother, ill toward the end, had let the house go. He cleaned thoroughly. Evenings, he pored over old photo albums and found a yellowed newspaper clipping.
There they wereSimon and Emma. Walking to school or back, caught by a reporter covering the harvest. The caption called them brother and sister.
Before leaving, he arranged for Laura and George to tend the house and garden.
“Dont suppose youve got a use for these?” Laura held out a bag. “Emma made themworks at the factory now. Her husband drinks, sells them off for pennies.”
Simon took it. Sturdy, well-stitched. He liked to imagine her hands sewing it.
***
After his service, Simon returned for good. He renovated the housenew windows, heating, a proper septic tank. Bought a decent car for commuting.
The village saw little of him. No friends lingered; old classmates had their own lives.
“Oi, master of the house! Leaving already?” A womans voice, familiar, called as he locked the gate.
An older woman smiled at him. “Dont you recognise me?”
“Mrs. Harper?” His old teacher.
“Still sharp! So, youve come home to roost?”
“Suppose so.”
“Good. But a house needs a mistress.”
Mrs. Harper launched into matchmakingdivorcées, widows from his class. Simon barely remembered them.
“Think on it,” she said, leaving. That night, he bolted the gate, wanting no more visitors.
***
One evening, driving home, Simon spotted a woman walking ahead. His pulse leapt*Emma?*
He pulled over. “Need a lift?”
“Simon?” Her voice still undid him.
She climbed in. Three hundred yards to her parents, but she didnt refuse.
“Visiting?” he asked, greedy for conversation.
“For good. Vals dead.”
“So youre a widow.”
Silence. They stopped at her gate. “Thanks,” she said softly, the word echoing in his heart for days.
That evening, he went to propose. Laura met him in the yard.
“Emma home?”
“She is. Here to propose?”
“Since you sent me to walk her to school.”
Laura sighed. “We all knew. But she was too young, then you left. Then that ValGod rest himdrank, beat her, lost every job. She stayed, poor lamb, thinking she could change him.”
Simon found Emma inside.
“Ive loved you my whole life,” he blurted. “Now youre freemarry me.”
“I know,” she said. “But its too soon. Vals not even forty days gone.”
“Ive waited decades! How much longer?”
She hesitated.
Then Mrs. Harper arrived with Tanya, an old classmate, angling for matchmaking. Simon refused.
After they left, Emma burst in. “I saw themI was afraid”
“Afraid of what?”
“Youre mine,” she whispered, clinging to him.
***
Now, Simon wakes before dawn. No need for an alarm. Emma sleeps soundly beside him.
Laura waits by the gate as he leaves for work.
“Good morning, son-in-law.
“Shes still asleep. Keep an eye on things?”
“Bless you both,” Laura says, crossing him like a benediction.
Next summer, Grandma Laura rocks a pram by the gate, sun warming her faceand the long-awaited grandson inside.
**Lesson learned:** Love isnt always about timing. Sometimes, its about stubbornnessand waiting until the world finally gets it right.
