**Diary Entry – 12th June, 2024**
Emily graduated from teacher training college with top marks, dreaming of university. But life had other plans. Her father was in a terrible car crash, spending months in hospital. When he finally came home, her mum took leave to care for him while he adjusted to the wheelchair.
There was no university in their town—she’d have to go to Manchester. Emily decided to wait a year. She couldn’t leave her parents during such a hard time and found work at a local primary school.
The doctors said with physio, massage, and medication, her dad might walk again. Her mum sold their holiday cottage in the Lake District to pay for private physios and treatments. But he never left that wheelchair.
“Enough,” he snapped one day. “Stop wasting money. I won’t walk again.”
His temper grew worse—suspicious, demanding. Her mum bore the worst of it. If he called, she had to drop everything, even if dinner burned on the hob.
“Dad, you could wheel yourself to the kitchen. Now the potatoes are ruined,” her mum sighed.
“My life’s ruined, and you’re worried about spuds? Easy for you—you’ve got working legs. Is it so hard to bring me a glass of water?” He’d hurl mugs or plates in frustration.
Soon, he begged for whisky. Drunk, he’d blame her mum for the accident, as if she’d caused it.
“Dad, stop drinking. It won’t help. Play chess, read books,” Emily pleaded.
“What do you know? Trying to take my last bit of joy? Books are rubbish. You read ’em. Life’s not like that. I’m useless now.”
“Mum, don’t buy him more whisky,” Emily begged.
“If I don’t, he’ll scream. It’s hard for him. What else can we do?”
One evening, exhausted from school with a sore throat, Emily snapped when he kept calling her.
“Enough! I’m shattered. You’ve got wheels—get your own water. You’re not the only one like this. Some people work, compete in the Paralympics. And you can’t even get to the kitchen? Sort yourself out. I’ve got lessons to plan.”
She heard the chair’s wheels creak past her door, expecting him to barge in, shouting. But he didn’t. After that, he tried harder.
On warm days, he’d sit by the open patio doors—his version of a walk. The doors were too narrow for his chair. Widening them cost money they didn’t have.
“Put me in a care home,” he’d slur after whisky.
“Don’t say that! You’re alive—that’s what matters,” her mum insisted.
A year passed. One rainy autumn day, Emily ducked under a bus shelter, soaked. A lorry pulled up, and a bloke hopped out, holding his jacket over his head.
“Get in. I’ll take you home.”
Cold and drenched, she climbed into the cab, smelling of oil and petrol.
“John,” he said.
“Emily.”
“Nice to meet you, Emily.”
He drove her home, chatting about how he became a lorry driver—his single mum, army service, decent pay.
“Need a lift? Just call.” He grinned.
That evening, he rang, asking her to the cinema.
“Can’t. My dad’s in a wheelchair.”
“Then I’ll come to you.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
Simple as that.
John started picking her up after school, bringing tea and sandwiches his mum made. Her mum noticed.
“He’s keen. Good catch.”
“He’s not a catch.”
“Your friends are marrying. You’ll wake up one day, alone.”
John proposed often, but Emily stalled. Her heart didn’t race for him. She hated how he fixated on money—how they’d “celebrate properly,” buy a posh car by winter. No flowers (“waste of money”), no restaurants. Just his lorry cab.
Then she bumped into James—her childhood friend, now tall and handsome—visiting his gran next door.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, smiling.
Her stomach flipped.
James brought flowers, texts like “Good morning.” She forgot about John, the wedding.
John noticed. One night, after her mum collapsed, he refused to drive her to the hospital, too busy trying to pull her into bed. She ran out in slippers.
James found her, took her to the hospital.
“Why didn’t your fiancé bring you?”
“That’s over,” she said, crying.
He kissed her—soft, sweet—and suddenly, nothing else mattered.
The next day, she ended it with John.
James arranged treatment for her dad. Six months later, at their wedding, her father stood on crutches.
**Lesson:** Settling for comfort over love helps no one—least of all yourself. And sometimes, the past returns just when you need it most.
