Dear Diary,
Summer is looming, and Ive never been fond of this season. It isnt the heat that bothers me; its the way John hardly ever comes home when the days grow long.
John and I have been married for seven years now. Our life together has been steady, with hardly any quarrels. Im grateful that he never hesitated to take me on, even when I was pregnant with our little boy, Oliver. He was barely a year old then. When my mothers brother, Alan, learned that his sister was expecting, he vanished from sightignoring calls, refusing to open his door. I once visited him at work just to look him in the eye. He shook so hard that I laughed and said, Dont worry, Alan, Im not asking anything from you; this isnt your child. He let out a relieved sigh and boasted to his colleagues, You cant make me raise a child that isnt mine! I replied calmly, Its not yours, Alan, its mine. People like you never have a proper family; every child is a stranger to you. He could only gasp for air, unable to answer, while the onlookers turned away. I left, determined never to see that onceloved man again.
When Oliver was six months old, I asked my retired mother to look after him while I returned to work. Before my maternity leave I had been employed at a furniture shop, and they welcomed me back with open armshard to find such reliable, pleasant staff. Thats where I first met John Volkov, who delivered furniture from the factory. I told him about my son straight away; he didnt flinch, just said seriously, Lets get married, and youll have another boy, then a girl. I love children. His proposal took me by surprise; I wasnt ready for marriage, but his steady, handsome presence and decent earningshe runs his own lorryswayed me. My mother, who is often unwell, couldnt look after Oliver forever, so three months later I became Mrs. Volkov.
Surprisingly, married life suited me. John is hardworking, never quarrelsome, and, most importantly, not jealous. I never gave him reason to be, and I stayed faithful, hoping he would do the same. When I once asked if he was seeing anyone, he laughed and said hed only consider it if I turned into a lazy, shabbilydressed old lady lounging at home. I reassured him Id never become that.
Seven years passed. John bought a newer lorry and now hauls cargo all over the country, earning well but rarely being at home. I opened my own furniture shop and kept busy to stave off loneliness. Oliver is now eighta kind, sporty boy with a few medals to his name. He loves John, even though he knows he isnt his biological father, and does his best to make his dad proud.
We never managed to have another child of our own. Five years ago doctors told us we were simply incompatible. I took the news lightly, since we already have Oliver, but I felt a deep guilt toward John. I promised him Id give him a grandchild. He clung to that hope, fell into a slump when it proved impossible, then revived a few years later, becoming even more caring, asking about the shop and Olivers progress. I was relieved to see him accept our childless fate and return to his old self.
Johns parents live a hundred miles away in a tiny village in Yorkshire. He often stays with them for nights, sometimes more than one in a row. I sometimes feel a sting, thinking hes at his parents more than at our house, but I console myself that Margaret and Thomas are in their sixties and need help with their ageing home. I never argue about it; I fear upsetting John again, remembering his two years of gloom.
Tonight, in May, an uneasy feeling settled over me. Perhaps it was the summer heat, or the fact that Johns absence feels heavier now. I called his mobile, John, where are you? At your parents? Why does your voice sound so sad? Im sorry if Ive upset you. The phone screen dimmed, and I felt tears well up. Hed never spoken to me so harshly before. I paced the house, then, unable to bear it any longer, drove Oliver to his grandmothers, and headed for the village where Johns parents live.
I arrived late. Johns lorry was gone. I knocked on the door, and Margaret, surprised but welcoming, let me in. She set a pot of tea on the table; Thomas was already asleep, so we spoke in hushed tones. As I began to explain my worry, a tiny, sleepy girl of about three burst from a bedroom, rubbing her eyes and calling for Mum. Margaret rushed to cradle her, humming a simple lullaby.
Where did this child come from? I asked, bewildered.
She answered hurriedly, Shes the daughter of our cousin, Lucy. Lucy passed away a few days ago. She had no one else, so we took little Lily in.
Are you going to keep her? I asked, my voice soft. It must be hard for you, shes still so small. And wheres her father?
Before Margaret could answer, Thomas, stirred by Lilys cries, appeared in the doorway. He stared at me, then at Lily, and I kissed his cheek. Sorry to wake you, Lily was crying. Shes such a sweet little thing, its a shame her mother is gone. Youre both getting older; looking after her will be a challenge, but youve done a good thing.
Margaret nodded, and I asked if I could stay the night and look after Lily. She hesitated, then agreed. The whole night I watched the little girl sleep, running my fingers through her light hair, already forming the words Id tell John and his parents tomorrow.
At dawn, I awoke to the sight of John standing beside our bed, staring at Lily and at me with a mix of fear and resolve. John, I whispered, pleading, lets take her in. I can raise her.
He turned away sharply and left the room. I chased him outside, finding him on a bench beneath an ancient oak, tears glistening. Im sorry, he murmured, voice cracking. I didnt want to lose you again. I never meant to cause you pain.
I asked, Why wont you take her?
He explained in a broken whisper that Lucy had given him Lily in a rushed legal arrangement two days ago; she had married a foreigner and didnt want to bring the child with her. His parents had condemned him for the secret, but it was already done. He feared his aged parents judgment, yet he saw no other way.
The confession left me stunned. I sat beside Lily, feeling a swirl of anger and sorrow, but also seeing Johns face reflected in the childs bright blue eyes. I wept quietly, pressing my palms to my face, letting the tears fall unnoticed. Then Lily, still halfasleep, opened her eyes wide, smiled, and whispered, Dont be sad, Ill braid your hair.
Her innocence melted my heart. I whispered back, Let me put your hair in a little braid when I learn how. The thought of her small, sweet face steadied me.
A few weeks later the court granted us guardianship of Lily. Oliver thrilled at gaining a little sister, promising to protect her. John gave up his longhaul routes, and together we expanded the shop, opening a second branch.
I still carry the sting of Johns past infidelity, but I have forgiven him; I see how genuine his remorse is. In December, Lily came home from her schools Christmas concert, clutching a huge box of sweets that Father Christmas had gifted her. She ran to John, hugged him, and whispered, Daddy, can I have a brother or a sister?
John looked startled, then replied, Love, thats not something I can arrange.
I chuckled, Why not? How could we say no to such a lovely girl?
He stared at me, speechless, while Oliver returned from his training, finding John spinning me around the living room, both laughing, Lilys chocolatesmudged face beaming on the sofa. Oliver sat beside her, took a candy, and said, Weve got the best parents, havent we, sis?
Now, as I write this, the house is quiet, the scent of pine lingering from the tree we put up earlier. I feel a strange peace settle over me, knowing that our little, unconventional family has found its own rhythm.
Until tomorrow,
Emma.
