**Diary Entry**
I never imagined my life would turn out this way. In a quiet village in the English countryside, where our family scraped by on a patch of land and endless hours of backbreaking work, I, Edward Whitmorea widowed fatherheld onto one dream: that my twin daughters, Eleanor and Matilda, would have the chances I never had. Barely literate myself, I knew education was their only way out.
When they turned ten, I made a choice that changed everything. I sold all I ownedour thatched cottage, the small plot we farmed, even my old bicycle, the one thing that let me earn extra by delivering goods. With the little money left, I took the girls to London, determined to give them a proper education.
Life in the city was brutal. I took any job I could findhauling bricks on construction sites, unloading crates at markets, collecting scrap for pennies. I worked day and night, skipping meals so they could eat, sleeping under bridges with only a tarp for warmth. My hands cracked from scrubbing their school uniforms in icy water, but I never let them see me falter.
*”If I suffer, so be it,”* I told myself. *”As long as they have a future.”*
When they cried for their mother, all I could do was hold them tight, whispering through my own tears, *”I cant be her, but Ill be everything else you need.”*
Years wore me down. Once, I collapsed on a worksite, but the thought of their hopeful faces forced me back up. At night, I strained my eyes under a dim lamp, sounding out words from their textbooks to help with homework. When they fell ill, I ran through alleys searching for a doctor, spending every last pound on medicine, borrowing if I had to.
Eleanor and Matilda thrived, always top of their class. No matter how tired I was, Id say, *”Study, my girls. Your futures are my only dream.”*
Twenty-five years passed. My hair turned white, my hands shaky, but my faith in them never wavered. Then, one evening, as I rested on my cot in our rented room, they returnedstrong, radiant women in crisp pilot uniforms.
*”Papa,”* they said, taking my hands. *”Were taking you somewhere.”*
Bewildered, I followed them to a car then to Heathrow Airportthe very place Id pointed to when they were little, saying, *”If you ever wear that uniform, itll be my greatest joy.”*
And there I stood, before a massive plane, flanked by my daughtersnow pilots for British Airways. Tears streamed down my wrinkled cheeks as I hugged them.
*”Papa,”* they whispered, *”thank you. For all you gave up today, we fly.”*
Strangers at the airport watched, moved by the sighta humble man in worn shoes, proudly guided onto the tarmac by his daughters. Later, they told me theyd bought a house for me and set up a scholarship in my name, helping young women with big dreams, just like theirs.
Though my eyesights faded, my smiles never been brighter. Standing tall, I watch them in their gleaming uniforms. From a poor labourer stitching torn clothes by lamplight, I raised daughters who now soar through the skies. And in the end, love carried me higher than I ever dared to dream.
