**Diary Entry**
“Do you want the child? Take him, I don’t care. I can’t stand to look at him. Just give me some money in return,” said Vicky.
Katherine had a long face with slightly bulging brown eyes, large teeth, and a heavy jaw. But her hair was thick, dark, and coiled in loose waves. If she tied it back, it made a full, stylish bun—but then her face’s flaws became even more obvious. So she always wore it down.
Her figure wasn’t much better—like it had been clumsily put together. But clothes could hide that. A face? Not so much.
Sometimes, men would call out to her on the street.
“Hey, love, fancy a chat?”
But the moment she turned around, they’d mumble excuses—”Wrong girl, sorry!”—and hurry off.
“Why waste such gorgeous hair on *her*?” her jealous classmates would sigh.
Katherine would’ve traded her hair in a heartbeat for thinner, duller locks if it meant a prettier face. Just a little.
She had no friends. But there was one boy she liked—sat a few rows over in class, always asking to copy her homework or whispering for answers during tests. She was brilliant at school.
One day, that boy invited her to the cinema. Katherine was over the moon. After the film, they walked home, chatting. He kept glancing behind them.
“Looking for someone? Afraid to be seen with me?” she asked bluntly.
He flushed and stammered.
Outside her flat, he gave her an awkward kiss. Then—hoots of laughter from around the corner. His mates had been watching. A bet, of course. Who’d dare kiss the “ugly” girl?
“What did they promise you?” she shouted before running inside.
After that, she ignored him. No more homework help.
“Don’t fret, you’ll find someone. I did, and so will you,” her mother—plain-faced herself—tried to comfort her.
Katherine graduated top of her class, earned a degree in economics with honours. But she envied her prettier classmates—dating, marrying, even having children while still at uni.
After uni, her father—a well-connected solicitor—landed her a job at a prestigious firm.
Her colleagues rushed home to husbands and sickly kids. Katherine stayed late instead, finishing their work. She had nowhere to hurry to. They adored her for it. Management valued her—reliable, precise, never missed a deadline.
Grateful co-workers tried setting her up with their husbands’ divorced friends—men who’d lost homes in settlements, tired of rented flats and flings, eager to settle. To them, Katherine was *practical*. But she wanted love. She sobbed at night, cursing fate for making her so plain.
Then her father died. Two years later, her mother. Both had married late—she was their only child. Now, utterly alone. Time passed. The clock ticked towards an age where having a healthy baby became near impossible.
A colleague suggested a holiday.
“Our managing director had *troubles*,” she whispered. “His wife wanted children, but he… Well. Doctors *hinted* they should take a beach holiday.”
They went to Spain. The wife found a handsome waiter, checked his blood type—just in case—and got pregnant. The director never suspected.
“How do you know about this?” Katherine whispered back.
“Doesn’t matter. But it worked. They’re happy. Men on holiday are all ‘single,’ married or not. Get a tan, relax, maybe meet someone. Just pick a looker—improve the gene pool.”
“Like buying a pedigree dog?”
“Exactly. Or try here, but messy—wives, drama. There, everyone’s detached.”
Skeptical, Katherine booked leave anyway. Strolling the seafront, she met a striking man—tall, broad, handsome. She faked a twisted ankle. He played the gentleman, helped her to a café, where she laid her cards on the table.
He didn’t laugh. Just studied her, then nodded.
She returned home glowing. Two weeks later—a positive test. Nine months after, a beautiful baby girl.
The midwife understood women like Katherine. No judgment. No excited visitors, no flowers, no proud father shouting thanks from the street.
At discharge, the midwife handed her formula, nappies, and her personal number. “Call if you need anything.” They grew close. Katherine named her daughter Victoria.
She spoiled her rotten, pouring all her unused love into the girl. Victoria grew up stunning—wilful, spoiled, her father’s mirror image except for Katherine’s hair.
Boys swarmed her. Schoolwork? Barely scraped by. By sixth form, she was obsessed with a biker, riding off with him nightly. No amount of scolding swayed her. She craved marriage. But at least she finished school.
Tired of fights, Katherine came home one evening to a note: *Gone to London with Jake. Don’t look for me.*
What could she do? Call the police? Victoria was an adult. Katherine cried, then buried herself in work.
Over a year later, the midwife called—unusual, they’d drifted apart.
“One of my patients just gave up her baby. Name, address… it’s Victoria.”
Katherine rushed to the hospital.
Her daughter looked haggard, unwashed. She wasn’t pleased to see her.
“Take him if you want. I can’t stand him. But give me money,” Vicky said.
Katherine handed over her savings. Met them at the hospital with flowers. Hoped Victoria would change.
She didn’t. No interest in the baby. Refused to breastfeed. Wouldn’t even help name him.
“Call him whatever,” she said, then vanished three days later.
Katherine named him George—after the stranger who’d given her Victoria. Took leave. Hired a nanny. The director let her work remotely.
She adored George but didn’t spoil him—not like before. He was calm, sweet, called her “Mum.” When he was older, she explained she was his grandma. That his mum was away, but she’d return.
“Why doesn’t she call?” he asked once.
So Katherine wrote letters *from* Victoria. He believed them at first. Then grew tired of empty promises. The envelopes were always blank—how would they arrive?
Mum never came. He stopped asking. Katherine stopped writing.
For years, she dreaded Victoria’s return. Then a letter arrived—from America.
She’d married an older man. Two stepdaughters. He wanted a son. Her heart lurched. *This is it.*
Victoria couldn’t conceive. When her husband learned about George, he insisted they bring him over. Best schools, a big house… Not a word about *him*, just the life he’d have.
Katherine’s hands shook. George found her on the sofa, the letter beside her.
“Mum wrote again?” he scoffed.
She wept. “She’s coming to take you to America.”
He frowned. “Should I call an ambulance? Your pills?”
“George, I—”
“I’m not going. She never wanted me. I don’t want her. I won’t leave you.”
Two weeks later, another letter. The marriage was over. She needed money—fast. Divorce would take time. Could Katherine sell their central London flat? Split the profit.
A trade: money for George.
Within months, they moved to a smaller place on the outskirts. Cramped, but with a view of the woods. George started a new school.
Katherine made Victoria sign away all claims to him before sending the money.
She never wrote again.
Years passed. Wrinkles softened Katherine’s face, made her almost beautiful. She had no regrets. No husband, but George was her world.
All she prayed for now was time—enough to see him settled, maybe even meet grandchildren.
Raising children is hard. There’s a fine line between love and spoiling. *Do no harm*—that applies to parenting too.
