**Diary Entry**
*20th March*
Youre a monster, Mum! People like you shouldnt have children! I kept studying, trying to drown out the words ringing in my head.
It all started when I met Richard in Manchester. Handsome, well-offhis parents had moved abroad for work, leaving him with a flat and plenty of money. I fell for him fast, moved in quicker. Nights were spent partyingclubs, house gatherings, endless fun. At first, I loved it. But soon, I was drowning in debt and failing my winter exams. The university warned me: one more slip, and Id be out.
I swore to change. Locked myself away with books while Richards mates laughed in the next room. I scraped through, barely, and begged him to slow down. Dont be dull, Eleanor, he scoffed. Youth doesnt last. When else will we have fun?
I lied to Mum, said wed married properly. Couldnt bear to admit the truth.
Then the nausea hit. The pregnancy test confirmed my worst fear.
Richards solution? Get rid of it. He vanished for two days, then stumbled back with some drunk blonde clinging to him. I snapped, screameduntil he hit me. I ran, tears streaking my face, to the student halls. The porter took pity, let me in.
The next morning, Richard was at my door, begging forgiveness. For the baby, I went back.
His parents returned from abroad, took one look at mea country girl barely passing her first year, now pregnantand his father slid a wad of cash across the table. Take it and leave. My sons not father material. Humiliated, I refused, packed my bags, and went home.
Mum stood in the doorway, eyes cold. So, not married after all? Thought youd landed a posh lad, but here you areknocked up and dumped.
Where else can I go? I whispered.
She shrugged. Ive a boyfriend now. Younger. I wont have him eyeing you.
I sat on a park bench, sobbing. Then Sophie, an old schoolmate, found me. Took me in.
A job followedcaring for an elderly woman, Mrs. Hargreaves. No pay, just her pension for expenses. When my daughter, Matilda, was born, Mrs. Hargreaves even rocked her to sleep.
Years later, Mum returned, claiming illness, needing shelter. I let her inonly to overhear her on the phone: She doesnt know skimming rent money
I threw her out. But when she fell truly ill, I nursed her till the end.
Hate breeds hate. If a mother cant love her child, what love can she expect in return? Yet holding onto bitterness serves no one. Some lessons cut deepbut mercy, however hard, heals deeper.
