**Diary Entry: A Remedy for Sorrow**
Emily and William met at university, both living in student halls. They knew they’d stay together, but only after graduation—until life had other plans. In her final year, Emily fell pregnant.
“Will, what do we do?” Her voice trembled. “You know how strict my mum is. She barely let me come to uni. I promised I wouldn’t end up like her, unmarried with a child. How do I go home now? She’ll kill me.” She bit her lip, fighting tears.
William was terrified too, but he did what he thought was right. His parents had set no conditions when they sent him to study in London. He loved Emily, heartbroken and weeping, so he proposed they marry. Finals were looming—no time for a wedding.
He called his parents, confessed everything, and said he’d return after graduation with a degree and a wife. They scolded him, of course, but what could they do? Let them come home together.
Emily hid her growing bump behind William when they stood in his parents’ cramped hallway. His father frowned; his mother shook her head, chiding them for rushing into parenthood, marrying without blessing. Bad luck, that. Is this any way to start a life? They grumbled but helped as best they could—sold their holiday cottage, scraped together savings, and bought the young couple a one-bed flat.
“We’ve done what we can. The rest is up to you,” his father said.
Two months later, Emily gave birth to a girl.
William worked, but money was always tight. His parents had given all they had. It was shameful to keep asking—time to stand on his own feet. Then an old schoolfriend suggested selling computers.
“Solid business. Demand’s high—got suppliers lined up. You know tech; I’m still learning. We’ll make a killing!” his mate urged.
The rough ’90s were behind them. Legal, low-risk—worth a shot. William agreed, borrowing a hefty sum to start as equal partners.
They bought outdated stock cheap, refurbished it, installed software, sold it marked-up. The business thrived. William repaid the debt and even bought a two-bed flat.
Their daughter grew—time for nursery. Emily longed to work.
“Stay home. We’re managing. Think about a son,” William grumbled.
“Let me breathe. I’ve barely left nappies behind. Never worked after uni. And Alice needs friends—how else will she manage school?” Emily reasoned.
Nursery spots were scarce. They offered Emily a teaching assistant role if Alice could enrol. She agreed instantly.
“A graduate, changing nappies? Embarrassing,” William snapped.
“Just a year—till Alice settles. Then I’ll find proper work. She’ll be right there. Isn’t that good?” Emily soothed.
Remote work wasn’t commonplace yet. Internet crawled. William relented.
Their business flourished, drawing envy. Then disaster struck. A new batch of laptops vanished overnight—covered up as a fire. They lost everything, left in debt.
His mate turned to drink. William couldn’t—he had a family. Debts loomed. Selling the flat was an option, but where would they live? Crawl back to his parents?
He hunted jobs, swore off business. Luck intervened—a stranded car, a processor on the backseat, a chat with the driver. A tech job followed: maintaining systems at a firm. Perfect.
Debts cleared. Life steadied. Alice grew; university beckoned. The worst seemed past.
Then, one evening, William worked late. Emily cooked; Alice played music with a friend.
“Mum, I’ll walk her home!” Alice called from the hall.
“Don’t be long!” Emily barely replied before the door slammed.
She switched off the hob, lost in a film, until William arrived.
“Quiet. Alice in?” He rubbed his chilled hands. “Turned freezing out.”
Emily jolted—Alice had left ages ago. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Her friend lived nearby. She checked Alice’s room. Empty. Phoned the friend.
“Alice isn’t back? We parted ways ages ago.”
Panic set in. Emily cursed herself—why hadn’t she gone too? She paced, frantic, while William sat her by the phone. Useless—she sobbed at every question.
“Yes, an unidentified girl was admitted an hour ago,” a hospital said.
Emily wailed.
“She’s alive. Stop it. Let’s go,” William barked.
Alice lived—but in a coma. No promises. Emily begged at her bedside. No miracle. On day three, her injuries took her.
November was bitter, sleet lashing the wind. That night, black ice formed. Alice was nearly home when a car—on summer tyres—skidded round the bend. Brakes screeched; her cry drowned. The driver lost control. Cruel, senseless chance.
William held strong, though grief crippled him. Emily? He feared she’d break—lose her mind, follow Alice. After the funeral, she visited the grave daily, silent, withdrawn. At home, she stared blankly, lashed out, blamed William.
“Your bloody failed business, your debts—I’d have had another child!” she screamed, forgetting he’d begged for a son.
He had to act—save her before madness took hold.
Colleagues sympathised. One suggested a pet—distract her.
“She needs purpose. What did she love? Painting? Music?” the cleaner advised.
William remembered—Emily had sketched well as a girl. Too poor for art school. She dragged him to galleries, though he knew nothing of art.
At home, he found her before a blank TV. He sat close, spoke of childhood dreams—lion taming.
“I wanted to paint. I was good. And music—I sang well,” she murmured emptily.
No art school would take adults. Online, he found a tutor—pricey, but worth it.
A gaunt, long-haired man in black arrived next day—materials in tow. William warned him—no talk of children.
“I don’t need her to be an artist. Just distract her,” he stressed.
Emily hesitated, then lost herself in painting. She glowed, showing William her work. He praised it—sloppy strokes and all—for her sake.
Then one evening, the easel was shoved aside. A torn canvas lay crumpled. Emily sat hollow.
“What’s wrong? Did the tutor cancel?” William asked.
“Gone home. His mum’s ill—needs an expensive op,” she droned.
“He’ll return—”
“Poor boy—he wept for her.”
William tensed. “For her, or the money?”
“For her! He loves her. But he can’t afford it.”
“You gave him money.”
Their savings—for Alice’s uni. Forgotten, till now. The box was empty.
He’d invited this conman in, spilled Emily’s脆弱 state. The artist played on her pity, spun a tale—she offered the cash herself. William rang the number. Disconnected.
“Emily, did you give him everything?” He forced calm.
“I’m sorry,” she wept.
“Not your fault.” He seethed at himself. The man could’ve killed her.
“Where’s his mum?”
“Glasgow, I think.”
*Of course. Far enough.*
Police hesitated—until William offered free IT help. The “artist” was traced—no sick mother, just a pregnant girlfriend needing rent. He’d preyed on Emily’s grief, hoping she’d forget.
Most money was recovered. William dropped charges—pity for the girl.
Emily trashed her art, gifted the supplies to a neighbour’s thrilled child. The shock jolted her awake.
Then, a knock—the neighbour’s girl held a grey kitten.
“For you. Mum’s allergic. Cats heal—trust me,” the man said.
William took it.
“Where from? So tiny!” Emily cradled the shivering ball. “What’ll we name him? Do we have milk?”
“Milk’s here. How about—”
“Toby. Alice’s teddy’s name, remember?”
He braced for tears. None came—just Emily cooing in the kitchen.
He exhaled. *Should’ve got a cat ages ago.*
“Em, off to buy Toby a litter tray,” he called, grinning.
“And food! We’re growing, aren’t we, little one?”
William smiled. No artists. Just a kitten—far simpler.
