**Diary Entry – 12th March**
From the earliest days of her memory, Emily Whitaker knew her life would never be ordinary. A single moment in her childhood had altered everything—leaving its mark on her skin and her soul.
At just six years old, she survived a dreadful accident that left much of her face scarred by burns. Her mother, Margaret, a stoic and fiercely protective woman, devoted herself entirely to Emily’s care. That accident stole not only Emily’s unmarked skin but also her childhood innocence, turning Margaret’s life into an unending struggle.
Emily grew up learning that people saw her scars before they saw *her*. It became both a burden and, oddly enough, a shield. She accepted that most men would never look past her face, quietly resigning herself to the idea that love might never find her.
Her mother refused to believe it.
“Don’t fret, Emily,” Margaret would murmur, smoothing her daughter’s hair. “One day, we’ll save enough for a proper specialist. You’ll see—you’ll be as lovely as ever.”
Margaret truly meant it. Though a nurse by trade, she worked every spare hour, stashing away pounds in an old biscuit tin, even skipping meals to save.
Emily always protested.
“Mum, don’t work yourself to the bone. I’m fine as I am. Maybe it’s for the best—I’ll never end up with someone like my father.”
Her father, Thomas, had vanished not long after the accident. Emily grew up convinced he’d abandoned them. Margaret never spoke ill of him. She kept a single photograph—a younger Margaret with a long plait, standing beside a tall, dark-haired man. Emily wasn’t in the picture yet; she’d still been in her mother’s womb.
“He was a good man,” Margaret would insist. “We don’t know the full story. Perhaps something happened.”
But Emily’s bitterness lingered. No good man, she thought, would leave his family in their darkest hour.
Years later, when Margaret passed from a quiet battle with lung disease, Emily found an old diary among her things. In its fragile pages, Margaret confessed that Thomas might have had another family—a son named Oliver in the next town over.
“Maybe he simply started anew without us,” Margaret had written. “I never told Emily. Every child deserves to believe their father loved them.”
The revelation didn’t erase Emily’s anger, but it deepened her understanding of her mother’s sacrifices. Margaret had borne her pain in silence so Emily wouldn’t grow up poisoned by hatred.
After the funeral, Margaret’s dearest friend, Beatrice Clarke, took Emily aside.
“Your mother was so proud of you,” Beatrice said softly. “She told me she’d have given up long ago if not for you. Don’t you dare blame yourself.”
Beatrice became Emily’s rock. Still, the years after Margaret’s death were lonely. The photograph of her parents became her most cherished possession. She kept it tucked in her purse, and on the hardest days, she’d take it out, imagining her mother watching over her.
Eventually, Emily found work at a modest restaurant in Manchester. It wasn’t glamorous—she scrubbed dishes in the back, away from customers who sometimes stared too long. The work was gruelling, and the atmosphere was tense, thanks to the young owner, Oliver Pembroke.
Oliver was wealthy, handsome, and utterly insufferable. His mother had bought him the place after he returned from university abroad. He spent most of his time complaining about the staff, hurling insults like confetti.
“You’re all lazy and dishonest!” was his favourite refrain.
In truth, the restaurant stayed afloat only because of Beatrice, who worked as assistant manager but ran everything. She treated the staff with kindness, even slipping them an extra tenner now and then. Everyone knew the place would crumble without her.
One morning, Oliver was in a foul mood, convinced—wrongly—that someone had nicked money from the till.
Sarah, another dishwasher and Emily’s closest friend at work, whispered,
“He likely took it himself and forgot. Just keep quiet.”
But Oliver stormed into the kitchen, barking,
“Wallets out. I’m searching everyone.”
Sarah handed hers over first. He scoffed at the receipts inside but found no cash. Then he turned to Emily.
He rifled through her bag, pulled out her worn purse, and inside—tucked behind a few crumpled notes—was the faded photograph of her parents.
Oliver froze.
For a moment, his arrogance slipped. His face went pale, his hands unsteady.
“Who… who are these people?” he asked, voice oddly tight.
Emily frowned. “My parents. And no, they didn’t nick your money.”
Oliver snapped the purse shut and handed it back without another word. Then he bolted from the kitchen.
Later, Beatrice called Emily into the office. Oliver sat there, looking strangely shaken.
“Where did you get that photo?” he asked.
“I’ve had it forever. My mother kept it,” Emily answered warily.
Oliver swallowed hard. “The man in that picture… he’s my father.”
Emily stared. “Your father?”
“Thomas Pembroke,” Oliver said slowly. “I’ve never seen that photo before. My mum told me he had another family, but I didn’t know… I didn’t know he had a daughter.”
The words crashed over Emily.
“Wait. You’re *Oliver*? The son from the other town?”
Oliver nodded. “I didn’t even know your name until now. My mum never spoke of it. My father died when I was fifteen. I wish I could say he explained everything, but he didn’t. He just… looked sad when he thought no one was watching.”
Emily sat in stunned silence. The man she’d despised her whole life—the one she believed had abandoned her—was Oliver’s father too. That made Oliver her half-brother.
Over the next week, Oliver’s attitude toward Emily shifted.
He stopped snapping at her and lingered near the sinks, asking if she needed help. One afternoon, he brought her a cup of tea.
“Look,” he began awkwardly, “I know I’ve been… a prat. I didn’t know who you were. If I had, I—”
“You’d have been less of a git?” Emily cut in dryly.
He chuckled. “Yeah. And I want to do better. You’re family, Emily. I don’t want to waste more years not knowing you.”
She didn’t reply at once. *Family* had always been a fragile word for her. But there was something earnest in his voice.
With Beatrice’s gentle nudging, the siblings began to talk. Oliver asked about Margaret, and Emily shared stories of her mother’s strength and warmth. He admitted his own childhood, though comfortable, had been lonely—his mother often absent, his father distant.
“I’d hear him humming sometimes,” Oliver said. “And he’d get this far-off look, like he was somewhere else. Maybe he was thinking about you.”
The thought stirred something in Emily—not forgiveness, but a quiet softening. Perhaps her mother had been right: maybe there was more to Thomas’s disappearance than cowardice.
Months passed, and Oliver kept his word.
He moved Emily to front-of-house, despite her protests, and insisted on paying for the treatments Margaret had dreamed of. Emily hesitated, but Beatrice squeezed her hand.
“It’s not charity,” Beatrice said. “It’s love. Let him do this for you.”
The treatments were slow, and the scars never fully faded, but Emily began to hold people’s gazes longer. Customers who once glanced away now smiled and called her by name.
One evening after closing, Oliver brought out a small box. Inside was a silver locket.
“It was Dad’s,” he explained. “He kept it hidden in his desk. There’s a photo of you as a baby inside—Mum said he carried it everywhere but never spoke of it. I think he wanted to come back, Emily. He just… didn’t know how.”
Tears pricked her eyes as she opened the locket. The tiny image was faded but clear—Margaret holding her, both of them beaming.
For the first time in years, the knot in Emily’s chest loosened. She wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.
She had a brother now—one trying, in his clumsy way, to mend a past neither had chosen. And she had her mother’s memory, not as a weight, but as a light to guide her.
A year later, the restaurant flourished. Oliver had grown into his role, learning from Beatrice and even listening to Emily.
On the anniversary of Margaret’s passing, they closed early and drove to the little churchyard in the Cotswolds. Standing by their mother’s grave, Oliver placed the old photograph—the one from Emily’s purse—into a small frame beside the headstone.
“Now she’s with both of us,” he said quietly.
Emily slipped her arm through his. “And we’re with each other.”
For the first time since she was six, Emily truly believed her mother’s words: *It will get better.*
Some wounds never fully heal, but they learn to fade. And sometimes
