21March2025
Dear Diary,
I was watching the lift shaft at the bottom of our tower block in Leeds when Mrs. Clarke, the nosy neighbour from flat3B, let out a quiet giggle that was barely a whisper yet carried far enough for everyone on the landing to hear. Look at her again, off to work she goes, she snickered, her voice low enough to be a secret but loud enough to echo down the concrete stairs. And theres Miss Peterson she struts out every morning in dresses and heels as if shed walked straight out of a fashion magazine. She must have a man paying the bills for her The comments rolled down the stairwell like loose stones, striking and dirtying the air, no one stopping to consider whose soul they might be trampling.
The women on the ground floor, in their housecoats and perpetually dusty slippers, shuffled to the communal letterbox just to catch a glimpse of anyone leaving. They leaned on the railing, arms folded tight, eyes sharp as knives.
Did you see her? Still on those heels
Yeah those arent the kind of heels a lady living on a modest wage can afford.
Leave it, we all know there must be a gentleman behind it. Young women these days have no shame
They laughed, nodding their heads as if offering wisdom.
Evelyn, the woman they were talking about, heard every wordonce, twice, ten timeswithout it even being spoken aloud. She read the judgment in their glances, in the way they measured her shoes, handbag, wig, and smile.
The wigher only luxury she never wanted to need.
Only a few months ago Evelyns life revolved around projects, meetings, and dreams. At twentynine she worked in a small office, content with her modest £30,000 a year, and harboured a quiet ambition to launch her own consultancy someday. Her world was simple, but hers.
Then the phone rang. The results arent good, we should meet, the doctor said. The word cancer hit her like a boulder, shattering calm, plans, the future.
Within weeks her long hair, a source of pride, began to fall in clumps. She would clutch the strands in her palm and weep silently, feeling pieces of herself slip away. One morning she stared into the mirror, shaved the remaining hair to avoid watching it disappear strand by strand, cried, then forced herself to stand tall.
Her mother, eyes swollen with tears, bought her a wig.
Dont feel stripped, love dont let the mirror hurt you, she whispered.
Evelyn placed the wig on trembling hands, examined herself. She was no longer the woman she once was, yet she was not merely a patient either. She was a woman clinging desperately to normalcy.
She decided: if she had to fight this battle, she would dress for every skirmish. Not for the neighbours, not for some mysterious him, but for herself. She pulled out dresses from the wardrobe, the heels she saved for special occasions, and vowed that every outingwhether to chemotherapy or a simple walkwould be her moment of dignity.
If my body wades into war, my spirit must not stay in pyjamas, she told herself.
That day, as the ladies on the stairwell hummed gossip, Evelyn descended slowly, steps sure. A plain black dress, heels, handbag, wig set impeccably, a subtle rougejust enough to show she would not be beaten.
When she passed them, she felt their stares like needles at the back of her neck.
Look at her, off to work again, one whispered, barely audible yet unmistakable.
Evelyn stopped on a step. She could have stayed silent, as she had so many times, or smiled falsely and moved on. But the illness had taught her that life is far too brief to let injustice trample you. She turned back, offering a weary but firm smile.
Youre right I do have a sponsor. In fact, I have several.
The women raised their eyebrows.
My chemo, sleepless nights they sponsor me. Theyve shown me that any day I can still apply mascara, wear heels, and step out is a victory. Im not out there for anyones gaze; Im out there to see myself, not to be seen.
A hush fell.
This wig, she said, gently touching the hair, isnt a fashion statement. Its a shield, so I can walk the street without the world seeing my illness before seeing me.
She swallowed, then continued, And yes, I may look overdone to some taste. But you know what? After hours in a ward, you start cherishing the small things: a lipstick, a dress, a shoe. They remind me that Im alive, not merely surviving.
The neighbours lowered their eyes, as if the floor tiles suddenly mattered more than before. The eldest, Mrs. Clarke, mustered a soft voice.
Darling, we didnt know
I know, Evelyn replied simply. Thats why I tell you. You never truly know a persons story by the first glance. Maybe next time ask Are you alright? before Whos she with? Sometimes were not walking with anyone at all just with deaths hand, trying to outwit it for another day.
She smiled, not triumphantly but sadly, and said, Have a good day, stay healthy. I wish you that from the bottom of my heart.
She kept descending, each footfall a note of dignity, not defiance. When she reached the street outside the block, she lifted her chin. The air felt cooler, cleaner. She checked her phone: a message from the clinic, Todays tests look a bit better. Well keep going.
A small, genuine smile touched her lips. She didnt know what tomorrow would bringnext month, next year. All she knew was that as long as she could step out in elegance, the fight was still on.
Perhaps one day the neighbours will understand that not all women who appear polished are being maintained by a lover; some are sustained by their own bravery. Until then, Evelyn will wear her wig, dresses, and heels like an invisible crownnot of royalty, but of survival.
Lesson learned: before casting judgment, ask yourself whether you would want to be judged the same way. Keep your heart open, and remember that true courage often wears a high heel and a smile.
