**Diary Entry**
“Please, give me back my son. I’ll give you anything you want,” I whispered, my voice barely clinging to strength.
“Your father won’t just disappear,” Alice had once said, callous as ever. “He’s only forty-three. Do you think he’ll mourn your mother forever? Not likely. There are more single women than men—someone will snap him up eventually. So come to London with me. Don’t get in the way of him rebuilding his life. Or do you want him alone forever?”
We were from a small town just outside London. When we were in sixth form, Mum was hit by a car. Dad and I barely held ourselves together. Suddenly, I was managing the house, but somehow, I still kept up with school, even scoring well on my A-levels.
Alice had always dreamed of escaping to London and begged me to join her.
“Dad’s still grieving. What if I leave him too?” I argued.
She scoffed. “He’ll survive. Forty-three isn’t old. Mark my words—some lonely woman will scoop him up soon enough. Stop clinging to him like a child.”
Her words cut deep, but there was truth in them. So, I talked to Dad.
“Go, love,” he said gently. “I’ll manage. London’s not the other side of the world. If you hate it, come home. What’s here for you now?”
So I went. I could’ve gone to uni, but Alice’s grades were middling—no shot at a degree. I didn’t want to abandon her, so I followed her to a teaching college instead. We shared a tiny dorm room.
At first, I visited Dad every weekend. But after New Year’s, I noticed a change—he was tidier, happier. Soup and meat pies in the fridge.
“Mrs. Thompson next door helped,” he admitted, sheepish.
I reassured him. “Don’t tiptoe around me. Be happy.” I visited less, not wanting to intrude.
Alice barely attended lectures, disappearing with boys most nights. I covered for her.
“You’ll get expelled—or worse, pregnant,” I warned.
She rolled her eyes. “Relax. I’ve got it handled. Still holding hands with Mike like a schoolgirl?”
Summer exams came. She barely scraped by—thanks to me. Then, on the train home, she dropped the news.
“I’m pregnant.”
My stomach lurched. “I *told* you! What now?”
“Not keeping it. Ask your dad for money—Mum would kill me if she found out.”
“Are you insane? You said you were careful!”
“I slipped up twice. *Please*, just ask him.”
“Absolutely not. An abortion could ruin you. Tell the father.”
Her lips thinned. “I did. He ran. Mum *will* kill me.” She stared out the window.
I sighed. “She’ll shout, but she’ll come around.”
“You don’t know her. Help me, *please*.”
Reluctantly, I agreed—then didn’t ask Dad. I couldn’t. Maybe motherhood would change her.
When I admitted it, she screeched, “Traitor!”
But she never went through with it. Too scared of small-town gossip. By September, it was too late.
Winter break came. She hid her bump, dodging her mum’s surprise visit. I lied straight-faced: “She’s working at a children’s home.”
“You’re *insane*,” I hissed later. “Your mum brought *gifts*.”
“And if she saw *this*?” Alice gestured at her belly. “I’ll leave it at the hospital. What would I do with a baby?”
“Then you shouldn’t have slept around!”
“*You* take it, if you care so much!” she spat.
Late February, I woke to her moaning. Contractions. The warden barked, “No babies in the dorms!”
Three days later, she returned—alone.
“Where’s the baby?” I demanded.
“Gone. Drop it.” She turned to the wall.
A week later, she vanished while I was in class. Calls went unanswered.
After college, I returned home with my son. Dad and Mrs. Thompson had moved in together, renting her flat out—until we needed it.
Four years passed.
I worked at a nursery to stay near Vanya. One snowy afternoon, we trudged home, him giggling as he kicked snow.
“*Nadia?*”
I froze. The woman in the fur coat was Alice—unrecognisable. A man stood beside her.
“You’re back visiting?” I glanced at Vanya.
“My husband, Simon.” She eyed my son. “Mike finally won you over?”
“It’s freezing. We need to go.” I hurried Vanya away.
That night, she called.
“Tell me the truth. Is he mine?”
“*Mine*,” I snapped.
“He looks *just* like his father. Meet me tomorrow.”
The café. Alice, alone.
“Where’s Vanya?” I choked out.
“*Mum!*” He barrelled into me. Across the room, Dad wrestled Alice—who’d tried to bolt—as police sirens wailed.
“Let her go,” I whispered, holding Vanya. “She’s punished herself enough.”
I dropped the charges after she swore to stay away.
Women’s friendship dies when they can’t share a man—or in our case, a child. She birthed him. I raised him.
Vanya never understood. The “friend” took him to a big city, ignored him, fought with her husband. He played with a quiet, kind girl—and missed *me*. His *real* mum.
