**Diary Entry**
I still remember the day Victoria said those words to me: “Take the child if you want—I don’t care. I can’t bear to look at him. But give me money in return.” My hands shook as I handed over nearly all my savings, hoping against hope she might change her mind.
I wasn’t a pretty girl, I knew that. My face was long, my eyes slightly bulging, my teeth too large, my chin too heavy. Only my hair was beautiful—thick, dark, curling in heavy waves. I wore it loose because tying it up only made my flaws more obvious. The boys at school would call after me, but when I turned, they’d stammer apologies and vanish. I heard the whispers: “Why should an ugly girl have hair like that?” I would’ve traded it in a heartbeat for a prettier face.
There was a boy I fancied—Oliver Marshall—who sat a few rows over. He’d ask to copy my homework, sometimes nudge me for answers during tests. Then one day, he invited me to the cinema. I was over the moon. Afterward, walking home, he kept glancing back. “Who are you looking for?” I asked. “Afraid someone will see you with me?” He flushed crimson. Outside my flat, he kissed me clumsily—just before his mates leapt out from the alley, cackling. I ran inside before they could see me cry.
Mum tried to soothe me. “Don’t worry, love. Men will come. I married, and so will you.” But Mum hadn’t been pretty either.
I threw myself into studies, graduated top of my class in economics, landed a good job through Dad’s connections. Colleagues rushed home to husbands and sickly children; I stayed late, finishing their work. They loved me for it, and management valued my reliability. Still, I cried at night, cursing fate for making me so plain.
After Mum and Dad passed, a colleague nudged me to take a holiday. “Go somewhere warm,” she whispered. “Our managing director had… trouble conceiving. His wife went abroad, found herself a handsome waiter—” She winked. “Discretion guaranteed.”
In Brighton, I met a man—tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome. I feigned a twisted ankle; he helped me to a café, listened as I bluntly told him what I wanted. He didn’t laugh or run. He understood.
Nine months later, Victoria was born. No one visited me in hospital. The midwife, Dr. Eleanor Whitmore, slipped me formula, nappies, and her personal number. “Call if you need anything.” We became friends.
I spoiled Victoria rotten. She grew up beautiful, arrogant, reckless—her father’s mirror image. At 18, she vanished with a leather-clad musician, leaving a note: *Don’t look for me.*
Then came the call. “It’s your daughter,” Eleanor said. “She’s had a baby. Written him off. Come quickly.”
Victoria looked haggard when I found her. “Take him,” she said. “Just give me money.” I did. Brought baby George home, raised him fiercely but carefully—no repeat mistakes. He called me “Mum” until I explained the truth. I forged letters from Victoria for a while, but he saw through it.
Then the real letters came—from America. A wealthy husband. A demand for George. My hands trembled. But George, now twelve, scoffed. “I’m not going. She didn’t want me then; I don’t want her now.”
She wrote again: her marriage was failing. *Sell the London flat. Send me the difference.* I did. Moved us to a cramped new-build on the outskirts. The view was trees and motorway lights—no matter. I made her sign away all claims to George.
Now, as wrinkles soften my face, I feel no regrets. No great love, perhaps—but George is enough. If God lets me live long enough to see his children, I’ll die content.
Parenting isn’t just care—it’s knowing when not to spoil. First, do no harm.
