**Diary Entry – A Life of Love and Patience**
*10th June, 2023*
“Mum, Dad—happy anniversary! Fifty years of marriage, your golden wedding!” Our daughter burst into the garden with her husband and children, beaming. “May you live just as many more years in love and happiness.”
“Thank you, love—though fifty more might be pushing it!” Dad—no, *James*—chuckled in reply. “But we’ll do our best.”
Fifty years. A lifetime, yet it feels like only yesterday we were young. Many can’t boast such a milestone; life isn’t always kind. There were dark days, hardships.
Were we always happy? Perhaps my tired smile hides old hurts. Maybe James’s grin masks lingering guilt. Who knows?
I was just fourteen when James, our neighbor—seventeen then—stopped me on my way home from school.
“Emily, you’re turning into a right beauty,” he said, grinning. “Once I’m back from service, I’ll marry you. Just you wait.”
“Ha! Dream on,” I scoffed, hurrying inside.
Boys at school fancied me, but I paid them no mind. Raised strict by Mum, I prided myself on being untouchable. Sharp-tongued when needed.
“Lovely, but wild,” lads would mutter. “Won’t give anyone the time of day.”
Years passed. James returned from the army and bumped into me fetching water. He froze—there I stood, grown, and for once, he was speechless.
“Emily! You’re even prettier now. Got a fella?”
“What’s it to you?” I smirked.
“Come to the dance tonight. We’ll have fun, talk…”
I shrugged and walked off, leaving him restless. The army had made him forget his old promise—yet now, seeing me, it wasn’t a joke anymore. A girl like me deserved respect, and he wouldn’t let anyone slight me.
He waited all evening at the dance. Girls fluttered around him, but he barely noticed, staring at the door. I never came.
The next day, he cornered me again. “Why didn’t you show? I waited.”
“I don’t do dances,” I said, chin high. He blocked my path.
“Move it, you idiot!”
“Or what?”
I dumped a bucket of water over him. “That’s what,” I laughed. “See who’ll want you now, all soaked.”
“Feisty,” he muttered, grinning as I left. “But I’ll wear her down.”
And he did. He’d wait by the gate, walk me home, even brought me wildflowers once—I couldn’t help but laugh.
Eventually, I gave in. We sat on his porch one evening, talking. He was smitten—dreaming of me, aching to hold me. Little did he know I’d loved him since childhood. Those army words never left me. That’s why I’d kept others away. But when he returned, I couldn’t believe he’d ever want *me*, not with all the village girls fawning over him.
Still, he melted my icy pride with a bouquet of lilacs—my favourite.
“Walk with me, Em,” he said one spring evening. “Everything’s blooming.”
“Alright,” I said, blushing. Finally, he saw it—I adored him too.
Soon, the village buzzed: *James and Emily are courting!* He’d won me over. No more teasing—just stolen glances, hand in hand. Some lads ribbed him—
“Letting her lead you around?”
But he only smiled, happy I was beside him.
Before long, he proposed. “We’re not kids, Em. Let’s marry. No need to wait.”
I agreed. But then his mum passed, postponing our wedding.
Later, he left to help with harvest in another village. “How long?” I asked.
“Not sure. But wait for me. You’re my life, Emily. Only you.”
His words undid me. That night, I led him to the hayloft. “Remember me,” I whispered. “Come back soon.”
He returned two weeks later. Not long after, I told him—*I’m expecting.* We married quietly, mindful of his mother’s recent passing.
Mum questioned me. “Rushing into it, are we?”
I confessed. Life was life—at least I wasn’t left unwed and shamed, she told herself.
No one in the village was happier than me. James adored me; I doted on him. Soon, our daughter arrived—some counted the months, but I ignored them. Later, a son—James’s double. Our love only grew.
The village wives envied us—especially widows and lonely souls like *Claudia,* the cook at the harvest kitchen. She eyed James hungrily, bitter.
“Look at him—strong, handsome. And *she* gets him,” she’d seethe.
One day, Claudia’s envy curdled into malice. She began poisoning James’s ear.
“Think that daughter’s yours? Hardly. While you were away, your Emily wasn’t pining.”
At first, James shrugged it off. But doubt crept in. Our girl looked just like me—our son, like him. Yet Claudia’s words festered.
“Water wears stone,” they say. One night, James drank himself blind at a neighbour’s. He stumbled home late, and I scolded him.
He grabbed my shoulders. “Why? Because I learned how you ‘waited’ for me!”
I slapped him—hard. “You *believe* that nonsense? How dare you!”
I slept with the children that night. Furious, he stormed to Claudia’s. She welcomed him eagerly—*finally.*
For a time, he strayed. Claudia begged him to leave me. But he never did.
Eventually, whispers reached me. Instead of fury, I chose cunning. I loved him harder, fiercer—and he crumbled. Soon, he raced home each evening, Claudia forgotten.
Years passed. Age softened him. Grandchildren came, chores multiplied. I let go of old grudges. What’s the use? Life’s too short.
Now, fifty years on, our family gathers to celebrate. James looks at me sometimes, wistful.
“My clever Emily,” he thinks. “She saved us. *I’m* the fool who didn’t see it sooner.”
And I? I smile. Love is patience—and patience, love.
