**Diary Entry of Katherine Whitmore**
Some people trade their children like unwanted trinkets. I never imagined my own daughter would be one of them. “Take him if you want,” Victoria said coldly. “I can’t bear to look at him. But give me money in return.”
I’ve always been plain—long face, heavy jaw, teeth too large for my mouth. My only blessing was my hair: thick, dark curls that fell past my shoulders. If I pinned it up, my flaws became sharper. So I wore it loose, hiding what I could. My figure? No better. Like a lump of clay shaped by clumsy hands. Clothes could mask my body, but not my face.
Occasionally, a man on the street would call out, “Hey, love, fancy a drink?” But when I turned, his smile would falter. “Sorry, mistaken you for someone else,” he’d mutter before hurrying off.
“Why waste such hair on an ugly girl?” my schoolmates sneered. I’d have traded it in a heartbeat for a prettier face—any face.
I had no friends, save one boy in class. He’d borrow my notes, whisper for answers during tests. Then one day, he asked me to the cinema. I was over the moon. Afterward, we walked home, chatting—until I noticed him glancing over his shoulder.
“What, afraid someone will see you with me?” I asked bluntly. His face reddened. At my door, he pecked my cheek clumsily—just as his mates rounded the corner, howling with laughter. A bet. Of course.
“What did they promise you?” I shouted before slamming the door.
Mum tried to comfort me. “Plenty of fish in the sea. I married, didn’t I? So will you.”
I buried myself in studies instead. Graduated top of my class, earned a First in Economics. Watched prettier girls flirt, marry, even have babies mid-degree.
After uni, Dad—a well-connected solicitor—landed me a job at a prestigious firm. Colleagues rushed home to husbands and sniffly toddlers; I stayed late, tidying their unfinished work. No one waited for me. They called me reliable. Bosses praised me. “Katherine never misses a deadline.”
Grateful coworkers set me up with their husbands’ divorced friends—men who’d lost homes to ex-wives, tired of rented flats and lukewarm takeaways. They’d have settled for me. But I wanted love. Cried myself to sleep, cursing fate for making me ugly.
Then Dad died. Mum followed two years later. Late marriage, only child. Just me and an empty house.
Time slipped by. Soon, I’d be too old for children.
“Go abroad,” a colleague urged. “Our MD had… fertility issues. Doctors hinted he and his wife should ‘relax by the sea.’ They went to Spain. She came back pregnant—by a waiter, mind. But who’s to know? Now they’ve a son, and everyone’s happy.” She winked. “Pick a handsome one. Improve the stock.”
As if choosing a pedigree pup. Still, I booked a holiday.
On the promenade, I ‘tripped’ into a broad-shouldered stranger. Over dinner, I told him plainly what I wanted. He didn’t laugh. Just studied me—and understood.
I returned sun-kissed, glowing. Two weeks later, the test turned positive. Nine months after that, Victoria was born. The midwife—kind, discreet—handed me formula, nappies, her personal number. “Call anytime.”
I spoiled Victoria rotten. She grew up beautiful, vain—her father’s face atop my curls. Boys flocked to her. She barely scraped through school, then ran off with a guitarist, leaving a note: *Don’t look for me.*
A year later, the midwife called. “Your daughter’s here. Refusing her newborn.”
Victoria looked hollow-eyed, brittle. “Take him,” she said. “Just give me money.”
I handed over my savings, brought baby George home. For three days, she ignored his cries. Then vanished.
I named him after his father. Hired a nanny. Worked remotely. Loved him fiercely—but not foolishly.
At seven, he asked, “Why doesn’t Mummy call?” So I forged letters. *Soon, darling.* He stopped believing.
Then *her* letter came. America. A wealthy older husband. “He wants a son,” she wrote. My hands shook.
George found me weeping. “I’m not leaving you,” he said firmly.
Another letter: her marriage failing. Demanding I sell our London flat, send the money. “My legal right,” she argued.
I sold it. Moved us to a cramped new-build near the woods. Sent her half—with a condition: she’d sign away all claims to George.
She never wrote again.
Now, tracing my wrinkles in the mirror, I don’t regret it. No husband, but this love—this all-consuming, sacrificial love—is enough.
If only God grants me time. Time to see George grown. Time to meet his children.
Parenting’s a tightrope. Care, don’t coddle. Above all: do no harm.
