**Diary Entry: When Dreams Come True**
*”Young man, you’ve scratched my car!”* A slender woman wrapped in a white winter coat stood on the pavement, glaring at me.
*”Learn to park properly,”* I muttered under my breath. *”Buying a license and then causing accidents—women shouldn’t even be allowed to drive.”*
*”Do you see the snowdrifts everywhere? Where exactly was I supposed to park? On that pile over there?”* She pointed at a particularly large mound with slender fingers. *”I’m calling the police!”*
My bravado evaporated. I’d already been fined for speeding this month—now this.
*”Look, my wheel hit the ice, too. I didn’t do it on purpose.”*
*”And what do you propose?”* she asked coldly.
*”Let’s settle this here.”*
*”No. It’s a matter of principle. I won’t tolerate misogyny.”*
*”Misog-what?”*
*”Misogyny—hatred of women!”*
*”Fine, I was wrong,”* I ground out. *”I’ll pay for the… scratch. Plus extra for inconvenience. How much?”*
After endless haggling, she finally relented. Part of me suspected she was dragging it out to squeeze more money from me. Still, I handed over a sizeable sum just to avoid trouble.
With a heavy sigh, I checked my bank app again: £250 left, and payday a week away. Ella’s birthday was today, and I hadn’t even bought her gift.
I called my best mate, Oliver.
*”Mate, I’m skint myself,”* he said. *”Why’d you give her so much? She looked loaded. Should’ve just called the cops—or sorted it through insurance. They’d have assessed the damage properly. You didn’t flee the scene.”*
*”I’m selling the car soon. If the police log it as a collision, good luck convincing buyers it wasn’t wrecked. Know anyone who could lend me a bit? Just for a week. I can’t show up empty-handed for Ella.”*
*”Right, not with a girl like her,”* Oliver chuckled. *”But no, sorry, man. No one I can ask.”*
An hour later, the woman long gone, I was still sitting in my car, replaying the morning. The ice had sent my wheel skidding—that was all. Then it hit me: the forgotten credit card buried in my wallet.
By evening, I stood outside Ella’s flat, clutching a small bouquet and a velvet box from the jeweller. A year ago, I’d never have imagined a girl like her—with her father co-owning Birmingham’s largest shopping centre and her mother running three high-end salons—would even glance my way.
*”Happy birthday, love!”* I thrust the gifts at her.
*”Oh my God—are these the ones?”* She gasped, lifting the earrings from the box. *”You’re mad! These are so expensive. But they’re gorgeous. Thank you!”*
Ella, despite her wealth, pinched pennies. She shopped at Tesco, cooked at home, and barely even splurged on takeaway. Still, the gap between us yawned. My family considered chicken-foot jelly a treat.
*”Hope you don’t mind—I’ve got guests,”* she said.
*”Thought the place would be packed.”*
*”You know I hate big parties. Come on, dinner’s ready.”* She led me to the kitchen, where her parents sat. *”Mum, Dad—this is my Eugene.”*
I froze but kept my cool.
*”You could’ve warned me,”* I whispered.
*”They surprised me! Flew in early. Relax, they’re lovely.”*
Her parents’ scrutinising stares prickled my skin.
*”So, tell us about yourself,”* her father said, smiling thinly.
*”I’m a bank manager. Did my A-levels in finance, then uni part-time.”*
*”Any real prospects in banking?”* Her mother turned to her husband as if I weren’t there.
*”Limited, I’d say.”*
*”I disagree,”* I cut in. *”In a year, I’ll be heading a department. In three, regional management.”*
*”That’s not what I’d call prospects,”* her mother scoffed.
*”Did you buy three salons outright?”* I countered.
Silence. Polite smiles vanished.
*”I earned them,”* she snapped. *”Started in a tiny hairdresser’s.”*
*”So why can’t I start as a bank manager?”*
*”Debating without me?”* Ella reappeared, arms crossed, new earrings glinting.
Dinner passed in stiff silence until her mother struck again.
*”Eugene, your thoughts on misogyny?”*
*”Against it,”* I said evenly.
*”Surprising you even know the word,”* she sneered.
*”Funny—I heard it this morning. From a woman.”*
Ella’s gaze darted between us. *”Both of you, stop.”* Then it clicked. *”Mum, was he the ‘sexist’ from the car park?”*
*”He ruined my morning! Had I known he was yours—”*
*”You could’ve said something!”* Ella turned to me.
*”Didn’t want to ruin your day. I was in the wrong, and I’m sorry.”*
*”Wait—you scratched the car *again*?”* Her father frowned.
*”Just skidded on ice—”*
*”Let’s check the damage. Did you file a report?”* He shot his wife a look.
*”Oh, it’s just a tiny mark,”* she stammered. *”We settled it. Right, Eugene?”*
*”I paid already. But if you want to see—”*
*”Stop!”* Her mother’s voice cracked. *”There’s no new scratch. Just an old one.”*
I stared. *”You lied? I transferred you £500!”*
*”You were vile about women drivers! I wanted to teach you a lesson. The money’s coming back. But Ella—men who disrespect strangers will disrespect you!”*
*”Ella’s got nothing to do with this! You parked badly!”*
*”Enough!”* Ella snapped. *”Everyone—get out.”*
*”Ella!”* her mother protested.
*”Now!”*
After a feeble apology, I was shown the door.
Minutes later, my phone buzzed. *”Look outside.”*
Three figures waved wildly below—Ella’s parents and me. Another text: *”We made up. Come with us.”*
Smiling through tears, Ella grabbed her coat.
*”I returned the money, I swear!”* her mother admitted sheepishly.
*”And I apologised,”* I added. *”But now we owe *you* an apology. Where are we going?”*
*”Sledging!”* her mother cheered.
Ella gasped. *”Sledging?”*
Earlier, after she’d kicked us out, I’d insisted we talk properly. Over coffee, I’d explained—yes, I’d snapped, but I’d been panicking about her gift.
*”I’m amazed he remembered,”* her mother said. *”This was his idea!”*
Tears welled in Ella’s eyes. Every year, her parents threw lavish parties—never the sledging she’d secretly longed for. I’d only caught her wistful mention once.
Her father pulled a rolled-up plastic sheet from the car. *”Happy birthday, love.”*
And just like that, under the frosty sky, her dream came true.
