Dear Diary,
I handed Blythe a bottle of water. She took it with trembling hands and stepped out of the car. I slipped into the drivers seat, turned the engine on and sped off, leaving her alone on the edge of the Yorkshire woods.
Blythe quickly washed her face, brushed her tangled hair, smoothed her coat and, with hesitant steps, began walking toward Leeds.
She had come from a small village in the Pennines to study veterinary science. She was in her final year at the University of Leeds, her grades showing she was serious about the profession. She wanted a career that would pull her away from a life of poverty and drunken parents, yet keep her close to the animals she adored.
That evening some classmates invited her to a party thrown by one of the affluent students. At first she declined, but eventually thought a little fun wouldnt hurt. The host gathered a large crowd, loud music blared, and Blythe, who isnt fond of such noise, spent most of the night on the terrace with a glass of juice, watching the lake.
I suggested a drive around the city to escape the raucous crowd. Blythe agreed, but soon realised it was a mistake. I drove her out of town, forced her into the back seat
Snatches of that ride flash in her mind, each muscle aching. She cant recall how she got back to the dormitory. She locked herself in her room, collapsed on the bed and sobbed into her pillow for hours before slipping into a deep, uneasy sleep.
She missed a few days of lectures, wondering what to do. Report it to the police? No one forced her into the car; she, naïve, had agreed to go with a stranger at night. Seek comfort from her mother? Unlikely, as her parents were constantly drunk, fighting over the next bottle of whisky. Blythe was left alone with pain and humiliation.
Months passed and she began to recover. She attended classes, chatted with her flatmates and tried not to think of that night. She almost succeeded.
One morning she woke with a wave of nausea, barely making it to the bathroom. She shrugged it off as a bad takeaway dinner. The episode repeated, and repeated. She was only seventeen, but soon understood what was happening. Hours later, holding a pregnancy test, she stared at the pale line. She was pregnant.
I dont want this child, she thought. Not this way, not from him. Every second it will remind me of everything that happened. I hate it.
All she wanted was to get rid of it, so she went to the clinic that very day.
The procedure isnt complicated, the nurse said, but you must know I wont take you to court. Youre underage, and without parental or police consent nothing will happen.
Alright, Ill come with my mother tomorrow, Blythe replied.
She left the consultation knowing her mother, even if sober, wouldnt help. She had seven months until she was an adult and six until the expected delivery, so she resigned herself to carrying the child.
Fine, Ill wait, she muttered. Ill give birth and be rid of it. Ill figure something out.
Weeks turned into months. Blythe finished her degree, pleased that her baby bump was barely noticeable even in the fifth month. She got a job as a veterinary assistant and rented a modest flat on the outskirts of town. The work grew harder each day.
One morning, as she prepared for work, a sharp pain tore through her abdomen and lower back.
It cant be, she thought, its still early, yet the baby was eager to arrive.
It happened so fast she could do nothing. Within hours she was holding a newborn boy. He whined a little, then fell asleep as if every sound would upset his mother.
Even as a vet, she managed the delivery herself, refusing to call an ambulance. She lay on the bed, the infant curled in a blanket beside her. She tried to feed him, to hold him again, but could not.
In the dead of night she awoke, the baby still peacefully snuggled in his fluffy quilt.
Sorry, she whispered, I cant.
She removed the little crucifix shed once received from her grandmother, who had told her it would keep her safe. She placed it on the infants chest.
I hope it protects you, she said, feeling filthy yet unwilling to back down. The baby wasnt wanted
She bundled him into a blanket, pushed a shopping trolley at the local Tesco, placed him inside and left without looking back.
She returned home, packed a bag and headed for the railway station. An hour later she was on a train heading into the unknown, determined to flee the memories that haunted her. A fresh start, far from the nightmare.
Ten years later.
Blythe had achieved almost everything shed dreamed of. Shed been married for six years and owned her own veterinary practice. Life seemed perfect, except for one nagging issue: no matter how many treatments she tried, she could not have a child with her husband, Andrew.
It must be karma, she thought, the past is punishing me.
One evening she came home to find Andrew brooding in the kitchen.
Andrew, whats wrong? she asked.
Blythe, I should have told you earlier. Its not right, but I have another woman.
She gasped, slid down onto a chair.
And theres more, Andrew continued, voice trembling. Im leaving her. Shes pregnant.
Fine, go then, Blythe said, thinking she deserved this. As Andrew packed his things, she reflected that fate seemed to be repaying her for the choice shed made years agorejecting the child shed once carried.
Her husband left. It hurt, but she was an adult now, capable of looking after herself. She wondered about the baby shed abandoned in the supermarket trolleyalone, defenseless.
The clang of a closing door pulled her attention away. A receptionist called out, Ms. Blythe, your first appointment is at nine.
Thanks, Molly, she replied, slipping into a coat and heading to the clinic.
In a bright consulting room, a man cradled a cat while a small boy stroked the frightened animal.
Tommy, well look after him, right, dad? the boy asked.
Thats right, Tim, the man replied. Im Mark, and this is your patient.
Blythe took the cat, a sleek tabby named Whiskers, and began the examination.
This cat has been with our family for ages. My late wife rescued him from the street, and I cant let him go. Hes been lethargic for two days, wont play or go out. Hes old, but please help him.
Yes, of course, I started, when suddenly Whiskers bolted, darting around the room, then dove under the desk, hissing as I approached.
Let me, a boy offered, slipping under the desk with the cat. As he emerged, a crucifix slipped from under his shirt the very one shed left with her son all those years ago.
Look, Tims fine now, Mark exclaimed, smiling.
Blythe listened to their chatter, her mind looping the thought, This cant be happening.
Mark, could you stay in the waiting area with Molly while I talk to the owner about keeping Tim active? she asked, turning back to the man.
When everyone left, she faced Mark, unable to find the words to begin.
I once no, thats not it, she started.
Mark noticed her pallor. Are you alright, Ms. Blythe? You look pale.
Im fine, she whispered, I just understand now.
Yes, Tim is healthy, thats obvious. We fed him, and
Sorry, Im not talking about the cat, she cut in, Tell me honestly, where did that crucifix come from?
What does it matter to you? Mark replied, puzzled.
She hesitated, then poured out everything: the night the boy had forced her into his car, the abuse, the impoverished parents, the unwanted pregnancy, the abandonment, the years of bitterness. She left nothing out.
Mark listened in stunned silence. After a long pause, he finally spoke.
My wife and I were married for six years with no children, he said. Doctors told us it was hopeless, so we adopted a boy named Greg from a care home. He was three, full of life, and we loved him as our own. Last year my wife died, and we never told Greg he was adopted. Hes my son, but now I realise hes also yours.
Im not trying to take anything, he continued, I made my choices, many of them cruel. I never expected to see you again, let alone feel anything for the child I gave away. I was wrong, and I understand now that hes not mine any more.
Silence fell again. From the closed door came Gregs laughter, and tears welled in Blythes eyes.
I know you cant pretend nothing happened today, Mark said gently, and I cant either. We wont tell him anything, but youre always welcome to see him if you wish.
Blythes eyes, still brimming with tears, asked quietly, May I?
Of course, he replied. Greg would be happy to have his own vet. Come whenever you like.
Tomorrow then? she suggested, pausing before adding, Ive lost so much time. I need to catch up.
Two years later.
Greg introduced Tim to his little sister, while Blythe and Mark watched their children with fond smiles.
Looking back, I realise that the choices we make in desperation can echo for decades, shaping lives we never imagined. I have learned that running from the past only deepens the wounds; facing it, however painful, is the only path to true healing.
Lesson: confront the darkness within, for only then can you step into the light.
