**Diary Entry**
I’ve always loved my balcony, especially on Friday mornings when the city below was still grinding through its final work hours, while I—a free and successful banking manager—was already savouring the weekend. The air smelled of ozone after last night’s rain and the pollen of blooming linden trees. I took a sip of my cooling coffee and glanced at the neatly stacked fishing gear in the corner. The new rod, the gleaming reel, the tackle box full of lures—my little pride.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Mum.
“Hi, Mum,” I answered, smiling.
“Oliver, darling, will you drop by today? I baked your favourite—steak and kidney pies.”
“Of course. But not for long. The lads and I are heading to the cottage by the lake.”
“Is this about fishing again?” Her voice carried that familiar mix of warmth and gentle reproach. “Thirty-two years old, love. When will you bring a girl home?”
“Mum, we’ve talked about this. When the right one comes along. Anyway, love you, see you soon.”
I hung up and sighed. These “fishing trips” were sacred—Pete’s cottage by the lake, barbecues, the sauna, long talks by the fire. Pete and Greg, my closest mates since uni, were long married. Pete had a daughter; Greg’s wife was expecting. And every time, our so-called “lads’ weekend” started the same way.
“Well, well, our last bachelor standing—ready to surrender?” Greg winked as we loaded bags into my Range Rover.
“Our lone eagle fights the marital noose valiantly,” Pete chuckled, clapping my shoulder. “Scared off every bride in town.”
I just smirked. I wasn’t running. I was waiting.
“I’ll marry, lads, but only for real love,” I said firmly as we left the city. “The kind where you just *know*. Like breathing the same air, being one.”
“Bloody romantic, you are,” Greg drawled from the back. “That’s fairy tales, mate. Happens in books, not life.”
“I think it happens,” I muttered, watching the road stretch ahead.
***
At the cottage, after the sauna and the first round of beers, the debate flared again. Local girls from the village strolled past the fence, eyeing us city blokes with interest.
“Let’s test your theory, eh?” Pete grinned slyly. “Staring contest. First to blink or look away from a passing lass loses.”
“And what’s the penalty?” I took the bait.
“The loser,” Greg rubbed his hands, “drives to the motorway and proposes to the first girl he sees selling flowers. Right there.”
I was confident. Maybe the beer went to my head, maybe the sun—but I lost. A tall blonde passed, and when our eyes met, I smiled and looked away. The lads roared.
A bet’s a bet. Half an hour later, we were cruising down the motorway. My heart pounded with shame and stupid excitement. Then we spotted her—a lone figure at a roadside stand, bundles of herbs and jars of jam spread before her. A petite woman in a simple floral dress, a scarf tied low over her face.
“Go on then, groom,” they nudged me.
I stepped out. She looked up—startled, but her eyes were the clearest blue I’d ever seen. Her hands, sorting the jars, were scarred badly. When I greeted her, she didn’t speak—just pulled out a notepad.
*What do you need?* she’d written.
My rehearsed lines vanished. I felt like a right cad.
“Sorry for the stupid question,” I said softly. “I lost a bet. And now I… I have to propose to you.”
I braced for fury, tears. But she just went still, then nodded. Slowly. She wrote: *I accept.* Then handed me an address.
***
The next day, guilt-ridden, I went. A tidy cottage on the village outskirts, geraniums on the windowsills, peonies by the fence. An older woman—stern, sharp-eyed—sat knitting by the gate.
“Here for Lily?” she demanded.
“Yes. I’m Oliver.”
“I’m Margaret, her gran. What’s your business, then? The girl came home shaken.”
I sat beside her, shame flooding me. “I acted like an idiot. A stupid bet—”
She sighed heavily. “City boys. Life’s a game to you. Hers hasn’t been kind. Saw her hands? Fire took her parents. I pulled her out. Face scarred… voice gone. Shock.”
Then Lily appeared. Seeing me, she clutched her notepad.
“I came to apologise,” I said. “And… if you haven’t changed your mind, I’ll go through with it. A paper marriage. We’ll divorce later. I’ll help however I can.”
I didn’t know why I was saying it. Something in her—her quiet strength, her vulnerability—touched me.
She scribbled, showed Margaret. After a long pause, her gran said: “If she’s set on it… One condition, lad. Don’t hurt her. Or you’ll answer to me.”
***
We married quickly. No guests, just Pete and Greg, baffled witnesses. Lily wore a cream dress, a veil hiding her face. When the registrar pronounced us man and wife, I lifted it, kissed her. She trembled—and something in me shifted.
No fancy feast. Just supper at Margaret’s—roast potatoes, fresh salad. More warmth than any posh restaurant.
That night, Lily smiled—not with lips, but her eyes. Blue, bright, full of gratitude. And I realised—I didn’t want to leave.
***
Back in my empty flat, I paced. Guilt, pity, then tenderness warred in me. Next morning, I confessed to Mum.
“What do I do?” I begged.
“You made this mess,” she said sternly. “Now act like a man. You gave her hope. Go bring your wife home.”
***
I did. Margaret relented, seeing Lily’s face light up when I returned.
Alone, Lily hesitated—then removed her scarf, unbuttoned her collar. Angry scars marred her neck, cheek. She watched, braced for disgust. But I only felt tenderness. I kissed her forehead, just above a scar. A tear rolled down her cheek—our first true moment of trust.
Mum welcomed her like a daughter. “We’ll fix this, love. Best doctors. You’ll speak again.”
***
Months passed. Mum found surgeons—Lily’s scars faded. Therapy was slower. Fear of her own voice ran deep. But we built new routines—weekends with Margaret, tea in the garden, plans whispered over her notepad.
One Sunday, we walked in the park—Lily scarf-free, radiant—and bumped into Pete and Greg. Their jaws dropped.
“Oliver… is that Lily?”
“The very same. My wife.”
“Bloody hell,” Greg breathed. Their wives stared—then Pete’s, kind-eyed Kate, handed Lily her baby.
Lily recoiled, but at my nod, she took him. And the tenderness in her eyes—God, I wanted *our* child in her arms.
***
Time flew. Then—joy. Lily was pregnant.
Labour came at night. At the hospital, mid-contraction, a miracle—Lily *screamed*. Then froze.
“Mum!” she gasped.
Then she was crying, laughing—*speaking*.
Hours later, our son arrived. When they called me in, Lily’s voice—hoarse, but hers—whispered: “Oliver… We have a son. I love you.”
I wept in the corridor.
***
A year on, our flat hums with life. Little Henry sleeps. Lily chatters in the kitchen with Mum. Margaret knits booties by the fire.
I step onto the balcony where it all began. The city glows below. Life’s unpredictable—I, the eternal bachelor, found love where I least expected. In a silent girl by a motorway. Through shame, duty, came real happiness.
Arms wrap around me. “What are you doing out here?” Lily murmurs.
“Thinking,” I say, turning to kiss her. “Thinking how lucky I am.”
Her blue eyes shine. That storybook love I once spoke of? It’s real. Sometimes, to find your fairy tale, you must first become the man worthy of it.
