**Diary Entry:**
Father was always strict with Lucy. Even Mum was afraid of him, hardly daring to speak out of turn. Yet with other children, he was different—smiling, kind. With us, it was always shouting. For years, Lucy couldn’t understand why he didn’t love her. The truth only came later.
In school, she studied hard to please him, to avoid his scolding. Since Year Six, she’d dreamed of high marks in her A-levels and getting into a university in London.
Whenever relatives visited, they praised the clever, pretty girl. “What will you do after school?” they’d ask. Lucy would glance anxiously at Father and mutter that she hadn’t decided. She never spoke of her dreams.
“Eleven years of school is enough. I won’t support her till retirement. Big and strong—let her work. Everyone wants to be a scholar or a boss, but who’ll do the real work?” Father would snap.
“Oh, John, don’t listen to him,” Mum would say nervously. “Lucy’s bright, all A’s. With marks like that, you’d have her stacking shelves at Tesco? These days, you need a degree to get anywhere. A good job means a better husband too.”
But Father wouldn’t hear it.
“Enough of your nonsense,” he sneered, glaring at Mum. “What’s a girl need education for? Boiling spuds and dusting doesn’t require a diploma. She’ll manage babies without one. Education just causes trouble. Look at you—what good did yours do?”
Mum shrank under his gaze, and friends sat silent, uneasy, never disagreeing with the head of the household.
So Lucy kept quiet, hiding her dreams. But after acing her A-levels, she decided—she’d leave for London. She was an adult now; nothing here would stop her. She’d prove her worth.
Yet seeing Father’s scowl, her courage faltered. Still, she spoke up: she wanted to study in London.
“You’re going nowhere. Understood? We clothed and fed you—now you’ll help us, support us in our old age. What’s in London for you? I know all about this ‘education’ business.” He shot Mum a look. She lowered her eyes.
“Not one step!” His fist thumped the table, rattling the plates.
“Don’t defend her. You’re no saint either.” Another glare at Mum. “Remember where your ‘education’ led you? You should thank me every day I married you, saved your reputation, raised this ungrateful wretch.”
“John, not in front of her,” Mum begged.
“Why not? Let her hear the truth. Maybe she’ll learn from your mistakes—though who am I kidding? Like mother, like daughter.”
“Mum…” Lucy’s eyes filled with tears.
“She’ll work. End of discussion.” Father slurped his soup noisily.
Lucy fled to her room. Later, Mum slipped in.
“Why does he hate me?” Lucy sobbed.
Then Mum told her everything.
“So that’s why… But honestly? I’m glad he’s not my real dad,” Lucy said, wiping her tears.
“I’ll talk to him. Here.” Mum handed her a roll of banknotes. “Not much, but it’ll help. Hide it well. I saved in secret—can’t promise more. He counts every penny.”
“Thank you, Mum. I’ll figure it out. But he’ll hurt you.”
“He won’t kill me. A shout, maybe a slap. He’s allowed. Just go to London—study hard. Don’t let me down.”
Three days later, while Father was at work, Lucy left.
University, a dorm room. Mum’s money ran out fast, so she took a cleaning job at a nearby office, working evenings when it was empty.
Her roommate, Martha, was glamorous, never studying, always out. She had a man—Archie, fifteen years older, married. “Met him at a club,” she shrugged.
“Why him? He’s ancient. Probably still with his wife?”
“Rich men aren’t poor students. Where d’you think these clothes come from? My parents can’t afford them. Archie rented me a flat—help me move?”
The flat was lavish. Lucy visited often, even stayed over when Archie wasn’t around.
She missed Mum, called when Father wasn’t home. Said she wouldn’t visit summer break. Then Martha invited her south.
“I’ve no money.”
“Archie’s paying. Thinks I’ll flirt otherwise. You’re my chaperone,” Martha laughed.
“You love him?”
“Coming or not?”
They watched the landscape shift from train windows—golden fields to vineyards, purple hills under a bluer sky.
The sea was just as Lucy remembered: cool, endless. Dawn swims, lazy afternoons, evening strolls. Men noticed them.
Two lads invited them to a café. Martha flirted shamelessly. “Relax. Archie won’t know. You won’t snitch?”
They split up later. Martha disappeared with hers; Lucy walked the promenade with Nicholas. Kind eyes, easy smile. She liked him.
Martha returned at dawn.
“Archie’ll kill you.”
“While he’s with his wife? Please. And you? Nothing? Bloody prude.”
“I promised Mum I wouldn’t repeat her mistakes.”
Lucy saw Nicholas daily—kisses, nothing more. He sulked, but she wouldn’t bend.
Back home, he called, wrote, swore he’d visit at Christmas. Lucy wondered if she’d been too harsh.
Term started again. Archie divorced his wife; Martha planned a wedding. “Pregnant,” she beamed. “His. I knew before the trip. He’s overjoyed—his ex couldn’t have kids.”
Nicholas never came at Christmas. Stopped calling.
Martha had a girl in January, dropped out. Lucy finished alone.
Graduation led to a translator job at a big firm, thanks to her old cleaning boss. Good pay, travels abroad. She saved, bought a flat after four years, a car the next. Only then did she go home—ten years gone.
Mum wept. Father scowled.
“Back for good, then?”
“Missed you.” She hugged Mum.
“Bought a car, eh? Rich boyfriend?”
“I did it myself. Translator—good salary. Freelance too.”
“‘Translator.’ Fancy word for escort?”
Tears welled. After all she’d achieved, he still shamed her.
“Thanks, Dad. If I were really yours, you’d be proud, wouldn’t you?”
He fell silent. For once, no rage. A small victory—she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Years later, at a work event in London, a man approached. Nicholas.
“You’re even lovelier.”
“You work with us?”
“Partner firm. Married?”
“No. You?”
“Divorced. Why didn’t we work? I thought you liked me.”
“You thought wrong. You promised to visit. Never called.”
“You were so reserved. I figured you found me lacking. Where are you staying? Just to walk you back.”
Night streets, shared confessions. Lucy told him everything—Mum’s past, Father’s hatred, her fears.
“He married her when she was pregnant. The real dad bolted. He promised to love me—never did. I look like the other man. All those years, I tried to earn his love. Even now.”
“You liked me?”
“Very much. I was scared of ending up like Mum. I wanted my children to have their real father.”
“Why didn’t you say? I’d have understood. I married—money-hungry woman, quick divorce. I thought of you, but feared you’d reject me.”
“We barely knew each other. Love didn’t have time.”
“Maybe not, but I never forgot you. There’s something about you. Can we try again? Don’t disappear.”
“You’re sure? I won’t bend my rules.”
“I’ve waited this long.”
She smiled. “I always wanted a beautiful love story. For my children to hear the truth—not lies, not struggle.”
“Ours will be that story.”
“Don’t disappoint me.”
**Lesson:** Time doesn’t diminish true love—it deepens it. Like fine wine, its richness reveals itself slowly. Not all at once, but sip by sip, until you understand its worth.
