**Diary Entry – 12th June**
Life is full of surprises.
“Mum, I’m heading out.” Nika poked her head into the kitchen.
Lydia turned from the stove and studied her daughter.
“What?” Nika sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes.
“Nothing. Why are you so dressed up at this hour? And makeup—a date? Don’t stay out too late, alright?”
“Alright,” Nika muttered, slipping away.
*She’s all grown up*, Lydia thought, sighing. She covered the frying pan and wandered to the hallway mirror. *Where did my seventeen years go? Time flew by so fast. Thought I had my whole life ahead, and now half of it’s gone. School dragged on forever, then everything sped downhill—uni, marriage… Happiness flickered like sunshine through clouds before vanishing again.* She smoothed her hair. *Well, no matter. She’s clever, beautiful… Oh—the potatoes!*
She gasped, darting back to the kitchen. Grabbing the pan lid, she nearly dropped it, hissing as steam burned her fingers. *Too busy staring in the mirror, nearly ruined dinner…*
She ate alone, half-watching a drama on the telly. The sky darkened outside. She didn’t realise she’d dozed off until her phone rang. Groggy, she answered without checking—who else would call this late? Friends? Just work acquaintances, really, bonded by loneliness.
A man’s voice shocked her awake.
“Are you Nika Fletcher’s mother?”
“Who’s this?” Lydia’s grip tightened.
“Dr. Harris from St. Mary’s Hospital. Your daughter’s been in an accident—she needs surgery. As she’s underage, we require your consent—”
“Surgery? What—?” The line went dead before she could process it.
*This must be a mistake. She just went out. An accident? But he knew her name.* Her sleep-fogged mind struggled. *St. Mary’s—must get there.* She called a taxi, changed quickly, and bolted downstairs, ignoring the lift. The taxi’s headlights blinded her as she rushed out.
“Please, hurry—my daughter’s in hospital,” she panted, still catching her breath from the stairs.
The ride was agony—urging the driver faster, then secretly wishing he’d slow down, delaying the inevitable. Her chest ached with dread.
She burst into A&E and saw a boy on a gurney—dirty jacket, scraped face, plaster above his brow.
“Where’s my daughter? What did you do to her?!” She grabbed his jacket, shaking him.
“It wasn’t my fault! A car swerved round the bend—I dodged, but it clipped us—”
“Who hit you? Why?!” she screamed, lost in panic.
“Enough shouting,” an older doctor interrupted, his greying moustache drooping. “Mrs. Fletcher? Sign the consent form.”
“Consent for *what*? Where is she?!”
“She’s unconscious—intracranial bleeding. If we don’t stop it, she’ll… Sign here.”
Trembling, she scrawled her name and collapsed beside the boy. The doctor vanished.
“I don’t understand… She just went out…”
“We were hanging out, then I suggested a ride on my bike—”
Lydia whipped toward him. “*You* did this!”
The boy flinched from her glare.
“He didn’t even stop to see if we were alive—”
“Jack! You alright?” A tall man strode in. The boy—Jack—stumbled into his arms, sobbing.
“Dad, it wasn’t my fault—he came out of nowhere—”
“I believe you.” The man hugged him. “Did you get the licence plate? Colour?”
“You’ll find him, sure. *Your* son’s fine, but *my* girl—” Lydia’s voice cracked.
“And you are?” the man asked.
“Nika’s mother.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I understand your distress, but let’s establish facts. If Jack’s at fault, he’ll face consequences.” He handed her a card. “Call if you need anything.”
She didn’t take it. He tucked it into her bag.
“Jack, let’s go home.”
“What about Nika?”
“She’s got her mum. They won’t let you see her.” He glanced at Lydia. “Need a lift?”
She didn’t answer, rocking silently.
Alone, Lydia noticed a small cross tucked behind a wall mirror. She staggered toward it.
“Save my daughter. She’s only seventeen. I can’t live without her… Take anything from me, just save her…”
How long she pleaded, she didn’t know. Voices came and went, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“You’re still here? Surgery went well—bleeding’s stopped.” The doctor looked exhausted, his moustache limp in the dawn light.
“Alive…” Relief buckled her knees. He steadied her with a chair.
“Go home. She’ll sleep till morning.”
Numb, she obeyed but couldn’t leave. She dozed in a hallway chair until the doctor found her.
“Didn’t go home after all? Come, I’ll get you coffee. You know the Stocktons?”
“Who?”
“Jack’s father—the businessman. Decent lad, stayed with your girl despite his own injuries. You owe him thanks.”
She recalled the scrawny boy with the plaster.
“He’s in her year at school,” she murmured.
Later, he led her to Nika’s room.
“Two minutes. No tears.”
Bandaged, bruised, Nika stirred.
“Mum…”
“Thank God—” Lydia clutched her hand.
“Where’s Jack?”
“His father took him home. Why didn’t you tell me you were seeing a Stockton?”
The doctor ushered her out.
—
Months passed. Nika recovered; Jack visited daily, leaving flowers and fruit.
“Love, he’s not for you—rich boys don’t marry girls like us,” Lydia fretted.
“Mum, we only went out once. He’s leaving—uni in London.”
“Good. You’ll find someone better.”
Then, a knock. Valery Stockton stood at her door.
“Forgive the intrusion. May I come in?”
She let him in, regretting her messy hair and tatty robe.
“The driver’s been found—confessed everything. I’ll ensure he’s punished. How’s Nika?”
“Doing well. Why’d Jack stop visiting?”
“Gone to his mother’s. Planned for ages.”
“Lucky for us he was with your son. A normal boy, and no one’d care,” she said bitterly.
He left, and guilt gnawed at her. *What’s his fault? Buying his son a bike? Wanting the best for him?* She thought of her own husband, who’d bolted at the first sleepless night with their baby.
Days later, she went to Valery’s flat. He answered with a whisky in hand.
“You?” Surprised, he stepped aside.
“I came to apologise. I was scared for Nika. You’ve been kind.”
“When’s she discharged? I’ll drive her home.”
*Always helping, while I—Ungrateful.*
“Did Jack leave because of the accident?”
“No. His mother left us years ago—remarried in London. Now she’s lured him there.”
“Don’t drink that,” she said softly.
“You’re right.” He set the glass down.
“You’ve raised him alone?”
“Yes. Tough, but… you manage.”
She eyed his pristine kitchen.
“Have you eaten?”
He shrugged.
“You’ve got potatoes, surely.” She dug some out. “I’ll fry them.”
As she worked, she imagined a life with space like this—no cramming pans into cupboards.
“You’re beautiful,” he said suddenly.
She turned, startled.
He kissed her—quick, soft.
“What—?” She shoved him away, hands wet.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
“I should go.” She fled, abandoning half-peeled potatoes.
At home, she laughed shakily. *Nearly forty, bolting like a schoolgirl. What must he think?*
—
Two days later, he pulled up beside her.
“Get in. We need to talk.”
She obeyed.
“I offended you. Forgive me.”
“And you forgive me…”
“The potatoes turned out well. You shouldn’t have left.”
“I didn’t even finish them—”
“I cooked them myself. Fancy that?” He grinned. “I like you. Since I saw you at the hospital.”
They arranged to fetch Nika together.
In the car, she watched his hands on the wheel—strong, capable. *Why me? Not some model? Maybe because we’re both alone…*
—
**Six Months Later**
Lydia cooked while ValAs she stirred the stew, Valery’s laughter echoed from the living room where Nika and Jack—now studying in London but home for the holidays—were squabbling over the telly remote, and Lydia smiled, realising life’s surprises had finally led her to something like happiness.
