**Diary Entry**
*6th March*
“Please give me back my son. I’ll give you anything you want,” I whispered, my voice barely holding together.
“Don’t worry about your dad—he’ll be fine. He’s only forty-three. Do you really think he’ll spend the rest of his life mourning your mum? Hardly. Statistically, there are more single women than men. Some lonely woman will snatch him up eventually. So just come to London. Don’t get in the way of him moving on. Or do you want him to be alone forever?”
We lived in a small town just outside London. When we were in Year 11, my mum was hit by a car. Dad and I were devastated. The housework fell on me, but I still managed my studies and got good marks on my A-levels.
Emily, my best friend, had always dreamed of leaving our little town for London and constantly tried to persuade me to join her.
“Dad’s still grieving. He hasn’t come to terms with losing Mum. And now if I leave too? No, I won’t abandon him,” I refused.
“Honestly, he’ll cope. He’s not even old. Do you think he’ll mourn forever? Not a chance. Trust me, some woman will take over soon enough. Move to London—let him get on with his life. Or do you want him to be lonely forever?”
Her cold words about Dad hurt, but there was a brutal truth to them. In the end, I talked to him.
“Go, love. I’ll manage. London’s not the other side of the world. If you hate it, you can always come back. There’s nothing for you here.”
So I went with Emily. I was a good student—I could’ve gone to university. But Emily’s grades were average, and she settled for a teacher training college. Not wanting to leave her, I enrolled alongside her. I could always do university part-time later.
At first, I visited Dad every weekend. But after New Year’s, I noticed a change—he was happier, well-groomed, the fridge stocked with homemade meals.
Blushing, he admitted our neighbour Margaret had been helping out… and more. I reassured him I didn’t mind—I was happy he’d found someone. I guessed she avoided the house when I visited.
“Honestly, stop acting like teenagers. Move in together—I don’t care.”
I started visiting less, not wanting to disturb them.
Emily, meanwhile, barely studied, skipped classes, danced in clubs till dawn, sometimes not coming back at all. I covered for her, helped with assignments.
“You’ve given up, haven’t you? Keep this up, you’ll get expelled—or worse, pregnant.”
“You sound like my mum. Relax, I’ve got it under control. No kids for me. Still holding hands with your Tom?” she laughed.
She barely scraped through her second year—thanks to me. Lately, she’d been distant, worried.
On the train home, she finally confessed: “I’m pregnant.”
“I warned you. What now?”
“I’m not keeping it. Ask your dad for money. My mum would kill me.”
“Are you mad? What about protection? You said you were careful!”
“Just a couple of times… So, will you ask him?”
“Not a chance. Abortions can leave you infertile. Tell the father—make him step up.”
She bit her lip. “I did. He vanished. My mum raised me alone—she’d disown me.”
I sighed. “She’ll shout, then melt when she sees the baby.”
“She’d *end* me first. Please, help.”
I didn’t ask Dad. I couldn’t be part of it. Maybe motherhood would change her. She’d graduate soon—I’d help. She’d thank me later.
When I told her, she screamed, “Some friend you are!”
But she never went through with it—too scared in our small town. By September, it was too late.
At Christmas, she stayed in London, her bump undeniable. Then her mum showed up unannounced. Emily hid while I lied: “She’s volunteering—can’t leave the kids.”
Her mum left, disappointed.
“Why lie? She brought gifts! She’d have shouted, then gotten over it.”
Emily scoffed. “She’d have *lost it*. I’ll leave the baby at the hospital—what would I do with a kid?”
“You should’ve thought of that sooner. He *hears* you.”
“*You* take him then, Saint Lucy,” she snapped.
In February, I woke to her moans. The ambulance came.
“Harris—no babies in the dorm,” the warden barked.
Three days later, Emily returned alone.
“You *left* him? How could you?”
“Piss off.” She turned to the wall.
A week later, she vanished. Calls went unanswered.
After college, I returned home with my son. Dad and Margaret lived together, renting out her flat. When we came back, they gave it to us.
Four years passed.
I worked at a nursery to be near Vanya. One snowy afternoon, he giggled in the drifts. A voice cut through:
“Lucy? Is that you?”
A woman in a fur coat—Emily. A man beside her.
Vanya stayed back as I froze.
“Husband, Mark. Is that *your* son? Did Tom finally convince you?” she laughed.
“We’re leaving.”
That night, she called. “He’s mine, isn’t he? You *took* him.”
“He’s *my* son.”
“Liar. His father’s face. Meet me tomorrow.”
In the café, Emily smiled. “I can’t conceive now. Three miscarriages. Mark wants a son. *My* son. He’d love him.”
“He’s *not* yours!” I fled.
A week later, the nursery called: “Your sister collected Vanya.”
I ran home. “Gone to London,” her mum said.
The police sighed. “His *mother* took him?”
Days blurred. Then Emily rang:
“Mark made me call. He’ll leave me if I don’t return *my* son.”
“*Where is he?*”
“Café. Alone.”
I sprinted. Vanya clung to me as Dad restrained Emily.
“Let her go,” I said. “She’s punished herself enough.”
I withdrew the police report, making her swear never to return.
Friendship dies when women fight over a man—in this case, a son. She bore and abandoned him. I raised him, loving him with all I had.
Vanya didn’t understand. The strange woman took him to a big city, ignored him, argued. He played with a quiet girl and missed me—his *real* mum.
