**Diary Entry**
It wasn’t an accident. I’m sure of it.
Grace was practically floating on her way to the club.
Short denim skirt, tight leggings in metallic silver, pristine white trainers, a crop top with some model’s face on it, and a high ponytail secured with a chunky scrunchie. Pink lipstick, rainbow eyeshadow—she looked like a proper star.
Everyone said she was something special. And she knew it. The pride of the estate. Got into uni in London all on her own—no connections, no handouts.
Remember what old Mrs. Higgins used to sneer?
*“You, Turner, have about as much chance at university as a penguin flying to the moon! Best you’ll do is a college course, and even that’ll take your stepdad pulling strings. Otherwise, street sweepers’ll be fighting over you.”*
Ah, right. The stepdad. Her real father vanished years ago. And her stepdad? Why would he lift a finger for *“such a waste of space”*?
Mrs. Higgins had waited for tears. But Grace just stood up, looked her dead in the eye, and tossed back, *“We’ll see who ends up where.”*
Mrs. Higgins narrowed her eyes and swore she’d make her exams hell. But Grace passed. Got in. On her own. No *”special arrangements.”* That’s how it was.
*“Fancy a bit of love, gorgeous?”*
*“With you? Jenkins, you’ve lost the plot.”*
*“Come on, Grace, how’ve you been?”*
*“Better than you.”*
*“You look fit—”*
*“Want one like me?”*
*“Wouldn’t say no.”*
*“Pop round, I’ll lend you a dress—you’ll look almost decent.”*
*“You’re brutal. What if I fancy you?”*
*“Piss off, troll. Gran blessed an oak cross for nightmares—and for blokes like you.”*
*“Bit harsh.”*
*“Better safe than sorry.”*
They walked down the evening streets, tossing jokes like pennies. Young. Free. Bulletproof.
*“Oi, let’s drop by school on Monday,”* Jenkins suggested.
*“You mad? Why?”*
*“Imagine old Higgins choking when she hears you got into uni solo.”*
Grace smirked. *“Couldn’t care less. What about you?”*
*“Shooting the breeze till autumn, then off to the Army. You’ll wait?”*
*“Course. I’ll sit on a bench in a headscarf, knitting you socks. A hundred metres long.”*
*“Oh, sod off.”*
*“Yeah.”*
*“Oi, look—Mandy! She went to trade college?”*
*“Yep. Each to their own. Right, Mike, I’m off. My lot’s over there. You chatting Mandy up?”*
*“Nah, just… hanging.”*
*“She’s sweet. She’ll wait. I won’t.”*
*“So… never an option?”*
*“Never.”* She said it clean. And left.
Uni came easy to Grace. Not because it was simple—just because she never whinged.
*“How d’you manage it all?”* her flatmate asked.
*“What?”*
*“Gigs, clubbing, and still nailing your grades?”*
*“Dunno.”* She shrugged. *“Just living. Not moaning. Not bothering with blokes. Uni’s my ticket. Fun? It’s now or never.”*
*“I just want to marry rich.”*
*“Not me.”*
She met Dave at a club. Too keen—she ran. Next day, he turned up at halls. Flowers. Chocolate. She shut the door. He came back—cinema, more flowers. She dodged.
The lass was twitchy under his stares. Near hated him. Then Jenkins started writing from basic training. Missing her. Not the Army—just her.
And she remembered him—running about in brown tights under shorts till he was fourteen… His nan dragging him to some witch for bed-wetting.
Dave rode a motorbike. Waited for her like some film hero. Then—he crashed. Right in front of her. And she ran to him. Not for Dave. For the person.
And somehow… she said yes to a date.
Six months together. No butterflies. No grand love. Just… there. He became familiar.
Then Jenkins’ letter—accusations, filth. Someone had snitched. Not that she hid it.
Dave was easier. Solid. Reliable. With him, she could dream. Of a wedding. Of a future.
*“Lucky you,”* said her flatmate.
*“How?”*
*“With Dave. You don’t know who he is?”*
*“Meaning?”*
*“His dad’s loaded. Bought him the bike. Now a car. Only child. Old money.”*
*“So?”*
*“Rumour is… he’s engaged. Lily. Dads merging businesses.”*
That night, Grace asked Dave. He fidgeted.
*“Dad’s idea. I don’t want Lily. I want you. We’ll leave.”*
*“I’m visiting family this weekend.”*
*“Alright.”* She almost thought he sighed in relief.
When she got back—something was off. The girls stared. The lads smirked.
*“What’s happened?”*
*“Sit down… Grace… Dave… He—”*
*“What?”*
*“He got married.”*
Not a tremble. Not a tear. Inside—a landslide. Outside—stone.
*“That’s it?”*
*“You’re so calm.”*
*“And what should I be? I knew. I left to see. He married. I let him. Makes sense.”*
She leaned in: *“Don’t say his name. Ever. He’s dead to me.”*
After graduation, Grace didn’t go home. She went—to the maternity ward.
Little Alfie was born. Strong. Hungry for life.
*“Grace… will you… tell his father?”*
*“No, Mum. Never ask again.”*
*“Alright, just… I prayed you wouldn’t end up like me.”*
*“I won’t. You married Dad. I didn’t.”*
*“Staying with us?”*
Grace saw it—Mum was scared. Stepdad—less than thrilled.
*“Got it. Not even taking me home from hospital?”*
*“Don’t be daft, Grace—of course we will…”*
They came. Stepdad shook her hand silently.
*“Dad says you can stay a month or two.”*
*“Cheers. We won’t linger.”*
Alfie barely cried. Like he knew—they weren’t wanted.
A month later, Grace moved in with Nan. The old woman hugged them tight and whispered, *“You’re home now.”*
Then—a knock.
*“Jenkins?”* Grace blinked. *“How’d you find me?”*
*“Got the address off Mum…”*
They sat in the kitchen. Nan squinted.
*“Gran. This isn’t Alfie’s dad. It’s Mike. Childhood mate.”*
*“Right… Bundle him up—we’ll take a walk,”* Nan muttered and left.
*“Grace…”* he started when the door shut. *“I came for you. I want to be with you.”*
*“So… pity?”*
*“No! I love you. I need you.”*
*“And my kid’s not a problem?”*
*“No, I—”*
*“And when your Auntie Sue sneered about me having a baby? Your mum. She treated me like dirt.”*
*“Grace, that’s past—”*
*“Get out. Don’t even look at me again.”*
*“Who’d want you with baggage?!”*
*“And who’d want you with no brain?”*
He slammed the door. She stood there. Crying.
*“Friend?”* Nan asked carefully.
*“Schoolmate. Idiot. Followed me around for years.”*
*“Proposing?”*
*“Gran—”* Grace laughed through tears. *“He wet the bed till he was thirteen!”*
Nan chuckled. Then, softer: *“But what if…”*
*“No ifs, Gran. I lived with a stepdad. I know what I’m saying.”*
Grace stood tall again. For her boy. For herself.
Because none of it was an accident. It was her path. Her fight. And her strength.
**Lesson:** Life’s not about the hands you’re dealt—it’s how you play them. And some battles? They’re worth every scar.She held Alfie close, knowing that no matter what came next, she’d face it the same way she always had—head on.
