Dear Diary,
The wedding day arrived and my own son, James, snarled at me, calling me a rascal and a beggar before ordering me out. I stood in the doorway, barely ajar, trying not to disturb yet not miss a moment that felt suddenly pivotal. My gaze met his, a mix of motherly pride, tenderness, and something almost holy. James, in a crisp suit with a bow tie his mates had helped fasten, looked like hed stepped out of a filmwellgroomed, handsome, composed. Yet inside me a painful knot tightened; I felt invisible, as if I didnt belong in his world at all.
I smoothed the hem of my faded dress, picturing how it would look with the new jacket Id bought for tomorrowbecause Id decided to attend the wedding even without an invitation. As I took a step forward, James, perhaps sensing my stare, turned, shut the door and stayed in the room.
Mom, we need to talk, he said, calm but firm.
My heart hammered.
Of course, love. I I bought those shoes, remember the ones I showed you? And also
Mom, he cut in, I dont want you here tomorrow.
I was stunned, the words barely reaching my ears.
Why? I trembled. I I
Its a wedding. Therell be guests. You look not quite right. And my job understand, I dont want people thinking I come from a lowly background.
His remarks fell like cold rain. I tried to protest.
Ive booked a stylist, will have my hair and nails done I have a modest dress, but
Dont, he snapped again. Dont make it worse. Youll stand out anyway. Please, just dont come.
He left without waiting for a reply. I was left alone in the dim hallway, the silence wrapping around me like a soft blanket. Even my breathing seemed muffled.
I sat, motionless, for what felt like ages. Then, driven by some inner push, I rose, fetched an old dusty box from the wardrobe, opened it and pulled out a battered photo album, its pages smelling of old glue and forgotten days.
The first picture showed a little girl in a wrinkled dress beside a woman clutching a bottle. I recalled that daymy mother shouting at the photographer, then at me, then at strangers. A month later I was stripped of parental rights and placed in a children’s home.
Page after page hit me like blows: a group photo of us in identical uniforms, no smiles, a stern caretaker. That was when I first understood what it meant to be unwanted. I was beaten, punished, left without dinner, yet I never wept. Weakness was not an option.
Youth arrived. After school I worked as a waitress in a roadside tea room. It was hard but no longer terrifying; I tasted a sliver of freedom. I learned to sew skirts from cheap cloth, curl my hair in the old-fashioned way, and practice walking in heels just to feel beautiful.
Then came the incident. I spilled tomato juice on a customer, the manager erupted, and I was on the brink of being thrown out. At that moment Thomas Greene, a tall, calm man in a light shirt, stepped in with a smile and said, Its just juice, an accident. Let her finish her shift. His kindness stunned me; no one had ever spoken to me that way. He handed me the keys with trembling hands.
The next day he left a bouquet on the counter and said, Fancy a coffee? No strings attached. He sat with me on a park bench, plastic cups in hand, talking about books and travel while I spoke of the home Id never known, of dreams that visited me at night.
When he took my hand I could not believe it. The tenderness in his touch was more than I had ever known. From then on I waited for his visits, each one in that same shirt, that same calm gaze, making me forget the ache of poverty. He told me, Youre beautiful. Just be yourself, and I believed him.
That summer stretched long and warm, the brightest chapter of my life. Thomas and I walked along the Thames, explored the New Forest, lingered in tiny cafés. He introduced me to his friendswelleducated, witty folk. I felt like an outsider, until he slipped his hand under the table, a small gesture that steadied me.
We watched sunsets from a flat roof, tea in a thermos, wrapped in a blanket. He dreamed of working for a multinational firm but said he never wanted to leave England forever. I listened, holding my breath, because each word felt fragile.
One day, halfjoking but with a serious edge, he asked how I would feel about a wedding. I laughed, turned away, yet a fire lit inside me: yes, a thousand times yes. I was only afraid to voice it, fearing I would scare away the fairy tale.
The fairy tale was shattered by others. In the very café where I once served, a patron laughed, a drink splashed onto my face, and a relative of Thomasshis cousinshouted, Is this the one you chose? A cleaner from an orphanage? Is that love? I wiped my face with a napkin, left without a tear, and the real pressure began.
Calls came, threats whispered: Leave before it gets worse. Well tell everyone who you are. You still have a chance to disappear. Rumours spreadthieves, prostitutes, addicts. An old neighbour, George Clarke, told me men had offered him money to sign a statement that Id stolen from my flat. He refused, saying, Youre a good person, and theyre the scoundrels. Hang in there.
I kept silent, not wanting to ruin Thomass life as he prepared for an internship in Europe. I waited, hoping the storm would pass.
Just before his departure, Thomas received a call from his father, Sir Edward Sinclair, the citys mayor. He summoned me to his stately office. I arrived, modestly dressed, and sat opposite him as if in court. He looked down at me, contempt clear.
You dont understand who youre dealing with, he snarled. My son is the future of this family, and you are a stain on his reputation. Leave, or Ill make sure you disappear forever.
I clutched my knees, voice barely a whisper. I love him, and he loves me.
Love? he scoffed. Love is a luxury for equals. You are not equal.
I left with my head held high, said nothing to Thomas, believing love would win. He flew abroad without ever learning the truth.
A week later the café owner, Harry, called, accusing me of theft. Police arrived, a shaky investigation began, and the mayors pressure weighed heavily. The stateappointed solicitor was weary, his arguments limp. Evidence was thin, testimony from witnesses flimsy. The court sentenced me to three years in a standard regime prison.
The cell door slammed; everythinglove, hope, futureremained outside.
Weeks later I fell ill. A test confirmed I was pregnant. The child was Thomass. The news hit me like a bolt, but I resolved to survive for the baby.
Pregnancy in prison was hellishmockery, humiliationbut I kept silent, stroking my belly, whispering stories to the child. I thought of namesJames, Alexander, after saints. Birth was hard, yet the baby was healthy. When I first held my son, tears fell quietly, not of despair but of hope.
Two inmatesa murderer and a thiefhelped me, wrapped the baby, taught me to swaddle. After a year and a half I was released on parole. George waited outside with an old baby blanket.
Here, he said, handing it over. A new life awaits.
My son, James, slept in a pram clutching a worn teddy bear. Mornings began at six: James to nursery, me to a cleaning job, then a carwash shift, evenings at a warehouse, nights at my sewing machine. I made napkins, aprons, pillowcasesmy days blurred into a fog of endless work.
On a street corner I met Lara, the girl from a kiosk near the café. She froze, eyes wide. Oh God Is that you? Alive?
I asked calmly, What happened?
She sighed, Harry went bankrupt, the mayors in London now, and Thomas he married, unhappily. I nodded, thanked her, and walked on. That night, after putting James to bed, I allowed myself one silent cry, then rose with the dawn and went on.
James grew, bright and charismatic, doing well at school, gathering friends. He often said, Mum, why dont you have a phone like everyone else?
Because I have you, Jamesy, I replied, smiling. Youre my most important call.
He pressed for a tablet; I sold my only gold ringa relic of the past. Mum, buy something for yourself, he pleaded. You cant keep wearing those rags.
Alright, love, Ill try, I said, feeling a pang in my heartperhaps I was becoming like everyone else.
When he announced he was getting married, I embraced him, tears spilling, Jamesy, Ill sew you a white shirt, ok? He nodded, oblivious.
Then came the cruel words that cut deepest: Youre a cleaner. Youre a disgrace. I sat before a photo of baby James in blue overalls, his tiny hand reaching for me, and whispered, Ive lived for you, but perhaps its time to live for myself too.
I opened my old tin box, counted the saved penniesenough for a decent dress, a haircut, a manicure. I booked a salon on the outskirts, chose modest makeup, a neat hairdo, and bought a simple blue dress that fit perfectly.
On the wedding day, I stood before the mirror long enough to see a different womanno longer the exhausted washwoman, but a person with a story. I even applied lipstick for the first time in years.
Susan, I murmured to myself, today youll see me as I once was, the woman who was once loved.
At the registry office, as I entered, heads turned. Women glanced, men exchanged secret looks. I walked slowly, back straight, a faint smile on my lips. James did not notice me at first; when he finally saw me, his face went pale and he hissed, I told you not to come!
I leaned toward him, voice steady, I didnt come for you. I came for myself. Ive already seen everything.
I smiled at Dottie, the bride, blushed, nodded, and took my seat, watching without protest. When James caught my eye, I realised he finally saw menot as a shadow but as a woman. That was enough.
The venue buzzed with clinking glasses and chandeliers sparkling, yet I felt detached, dressed in my blue dress, hair styled, eyes calm. I wasnt seeking attention; my silence spoke louder than any applause.
Dotties father approached, polite, Please join us. Wed be delighted.
James watched as his mother rose with dignity, followed him without a word of reproach. He could not object; the moment moved on on its own.
When the toasts began, the room fell quiet. I stood, microphone in hand, and said softly, I wont speak long. I wish you love that holds you when you have no strength left, that asks nothing of who you are or where you come from. Take care of each other, always. My voice trembled, but no tears fell. The hall broke into genuine applause.
Returning to my seat, I lowered my eyes. A shadow fell across the tablecloth, and I looked up to see Thomas, his hair now grey but his eyes unchanged. Susan is it really you? he asked, breath caught.
You I replied, steady.
I thought youd vanished. I heard you married, he said.
I was told you left, that I was with someone else. Im sorry. My father he made me believe. He extended his hand, Shall we talk?
We slipped into a corridor. I did not shake. I gave birth in prison. To you. And raised him alone. He closed his eyes, pain flickering.
Where is he? he asked.
Here, at the wedding, I said, pointing.
His face went ashen. James?
Yes. Our son. The silence that followed was thick, only my heels clicking on marble and distant music.
He isnt ready, but he will see. I hold no grudge. Things are different now. We returned. He asked for a dance; we waltzed, light as air, eyes on us. James stared, bewilderedwho was this man? Why was his mother treated like royalty? He felt shame for the first time, for the years of indifference.
When the dance ended, James approached, Mom who is this?
I smiled, a mix of calm, sadness, pride. Thats Thomas. Your father.
He stared, stunned. Youre serious?
Very.
Thomas stepped forward, Hello, James. The room held its breath, truth hanging between us.
We three have a lot to discuss, I said, and we walked away, not loudly, not solemnly, but together. A new chapter begins, stripped of the pasts weight, carrying only truth and, perhaps, forgiveness.
