**Diary Entry 12th June**
The day my father abandoned us, my stepmother pulled me from the jaws of an orphanages hell.
When I was little, my life was a shining fairy talea family, unbreakable and full of love, in a crooked little cottage by the River Thames, near the quiet town of Henley. There were three of us: me, Mum, and Dad. The scent of Mums freshly baked scones filled the air, and Dads deep voice spun tales of his adventures on the river in the evenings. But fate is a merciless hunter, striking when least expected. One day, Mum fell illher laughter faded, her hands trembled, and soon she lay in a cold hospital bed in London. She slipped away, leaving us drowning in grief. Dad lost himself to whiskey, drowning his soul in cheap liquor, and our home became a ruin, littered with broken glass and silent despair.
The pantry stood empty, a mute witness to our downfall. I dragged myself to school in Henley, clothes filthy, my stomach a growling void. Teachers scolded me for missing homework, but how could I focus when all I thought about was surviving the day? My friends turned away, their whispered judgments cutting deeper than knives, while neighbours watched our misery with pitying glances. Eventually, someone intervenedthey called social services. Stern officials stormed our house, ready to wrench me from Dads shaking hands. He crumpled before them, sobbing, begging for one last chance. They gave him a single, fragile montha final thread over a bottomless pit.
That visit shocked Dad awake. He stumbled to the shop, lugged home groceries, and together we scrubbed the house until it faintly glowed with echoes of warmth. He swore off drink, and in his eyes flickered a shadow of the man I once knew. I began to believe in healing. One stormy evening, as wind rattled the shutters, he murmured he wanted me to meet someone. My heart frozehad he forgotten Mum already? He insisted she was irreplaceable, but this was our shield against the relentless eyes of the authorities.
Thats how Aunt Clara entered my life.
We drove to her little house in Canterbury, a weathered home near the River Stour, surrounded by gnarled oaks. Clara was a whirlwindwarm but fierce, her voice an anchor, her gaze a beacon. She had a son, Oliver, two years younger than me, a wiry boy with a laugh that pierced the cold. We clicked instantly, racing through the lanes, tumbling along the riverbank until we collapsed breathless. On the drive back, I told Dad Clara felt like sunlight, and he nodded silently. Weeks later, we packed up our old life by the Thames, rented the house to strangers, and put down roots in Canterburya desperate attempt to start anew.
Life slowly stitched itself back together. Clara cared for me with a love that sewed my wounds shutshe mended my torn trousers, cooked steaming stews, and in the evenings, we sat together while Olivers jokes shattered the quiet. He became my brother, not by blood but by shared sorrowwe fought, dreamed, reconciled with a loyalty that needed no words. But happiness is a fleeting guest, one fate loves to crush. One icy morning, Dad didnt come home. A phone call sliced through the silencehe was dead, crushed by a lorry on a frozen road. Grief devoured me, a wild beast stealing my breath. Social services returned, cold and unyielding. With no legal guardian, they tore me from Claras arms and hauled me to an orphanage in Dover.
That place was a prison of despairgrey walls, iron beds, filled with the sighs of the lost. Time crawled, every minute a lash against my soul. I felt like a ghost, abandoned and invisible, tormented by nightmares of endless loneliness. But Clara never gave up. Every Sunday, she came laden with bread, scarves shed knitted herself, and a determination to bring me home. She fought like a lionessstorming offices, filling forms, her tears staining paperwork as she battered against bureaucratic chains. Months dragged on, and despair gnawed at me; I feared rotting in that grim hole. Then one morning, the matron called: Pack your things. Your mothers here.
I staggered out and saw Clara and Oliver at the gate, their faces blazing with hope and defiance. My legs buckled as I fell into their arms, sobs tearing from my throat like a storm. Mum, I choked, thank you for pulling me from that grave! I swear, Ill make your sacrifice worth it! In that moment, I understoodfamily isnt just blood; its the soul that fights for you to the last breath.
I returned to Canterbury, to my room, to my school. Life settled into a gentler rhythmI finished my studies, went to university in London, found work. Oliver and I stayed inseparable, our bond unshakable. We grew up, built our own families, but Claraour mumremained our anchor. Every Sunday, we crowd into her house, where she spoils us with roast dinners and apple pie, her laughter mingling with our wives, who became her closest friends. Sometimes, when I look at her, Im overwhelmed by the grace of this miracle.
Ill always thank fate for my second mother. Without Clara, Id have been lostbroken in the dark or swallowed by the streets. She was my light in the deepest shadow, and Ill never forget how she dragged me back from the edge.
