**Diary Entry**
My daughter, Eleanor, was a beauty. Though she came to me late in life, when I was nearly forty. Before that, I had been widowed, left alone—God had not blessed my late husband and me with children.
Then I traveled to stay with my cousin in Manchester for two weeks. When I returned, nine months later, my darling Florence was born.
Of course, the village women whispered behind my back, but I never told a soul who her father was—or why he never visited. Not even my closest neighbour, Margaret, could pry the truth from me. Florence, though, grew into the envy of everyone—a fair, bright-eyed, strong girl.
And how I doted on her! Dressed her well, taught her sense, trained her to keep house. Florence grew tall, graceful, and warm-hearted. After school, she finished bookkeeping courses in the district and returned to our village as an accountant at the poultry farm.
Almost immediately, she met Edmund. He was a newcomer, a young agronomist—educated, not like the other lads in the village. They took to each other at once. Within a month, he confessed his love, and they married. Florence was twenty-one; he, twenty-five. The whole village celebrated the wedding.
But after, he began disappearing—gone for days, then back without explanation. One summer evening, as they sipped tea in the garden, a car pulled up. A woman and a boy stepped out. *Here, Dad, we’ve come for the holidays.*
Turns out, he had a first wife—never a word to Florence. And his visits? To see his son. Florence couldn’t forgive the deceit. She packed her things and came home to me.
Oh, the tears I shed! Yet I scolded her—*You can’t just leave a man like that! So he had a family before—now he loves you. The boy’s just here for summer.* But Florence wouldn’t hear it. Young and stubborn, she filed for divorce.
Then she was off to London, chasing happiness. She visited often but had little to boast of—no proper job, no home, no husband.
At twenty-eight, I fell ill, withered away. Florence dropped everything and returned. She devoted herself entirely to me—two long years, though the doctors gave me less than one. Then I was gone.
She never went back to London—couldn’t settle in its rush. And Edmund’s wife? Still nervous, though he’d grown stern and gloomy. At my funeral, he was first to help—but Florence, though grateful, paid him no mind.
And she was still beautiful! You’d never guess thirty. A proper rose. Edmund, though—silver already at his temples.
Then, the village buzzed again! Young Arthur, the Peters’ son, was back from service—twenty, tall as a doorframe, broad-shouldered, muscles like iron. Every girl sighed, waiting for his eye to land.
But Arthur noticed no one—until he saw Florence by the river, swimming like a nymph, hair floating on the water like gold. His heart caught fire. He waited on the bank, then plunged in and carried her out, laughing, fighting him—but he wouldn’t let go. Smitten from the first glance, he proposed within weeks.
His parents were aghast. *Have you lost your mind? She’s been married, lived in the city—what kind of wife is she for a boy like you?* The village scorned her. But Arthur? He was in love.
Florence walked with him two evenings by the river, watched sunsets—but when his parents begged her to leave him be, she packed for London again. No happiness for her here.
**Seven years passed.**
Life in the city was no kinder. She worked in a shop, rented cheap rooms. Then she met Charles—kind, well-off, a good man. They married, had a son, lived in a bright flat. He often spoke of visiting the village, sorting the old house—but Florence couldn’t bear it. Even visiting my grave, she avoided everyone.
Too many bitter memories—losing me, the village’s scorn. The house stood sealed for years. Then Charles fell ill.
At fifty, Florence was a widow. Her son, fifteen now, still needed raising. And the house? A weight on her mind. *Sell it*, she thought.
That summer, they went back—to tidy my grave, face the village. Florence, elegant in black and pearls, hat shading her face, walked with her tall son. People watched from their gates. She greeted them all, though names escaped her.
The house was worn—peeling shutters, sagging porch—but sound. Neighbours flocked, curious. She told them of London, her loss. Gossip spread like wildfire.
Late that night, a knock. Her son asleep, Florence sat flipping through an old album. She opened the door—and gasped. Arthur stood there.
Life hadn’t spared him either. After she left, he’d waited years before marrying—Olivia from the next village, to spare feelings. No children came.
*”No luck in life, Florence,”* he sighed. *Olivia strays, shames me. Never forgot you—too late, I listened to my parents, lost my love. But you—still as beautiful.”*
Tears burned her cheeks. Arthur had aged—receding hair, stubble, calloused hands. A mechanic now, tending tractors. They talked till midnight, then she sent him off.
*”My address,”* she said, doubting he’d come.
But within a year, he did—clean-shaven, well-dressed, eyes full of longing. She let him in, warmth stirring old memories. His love, his proposal, her flight. Could time really circle back after twenty years?
It did. Arthur divorced Olivia, begged her to take him. He bonded with her son—a man now. Realising this was her belated fate, she agreed.
They married quietly, no fuss. Arthur moved in. At last, a happy family—twenty years late.
Regrets? Of course. But the best is yet ahead.
