**Diary Entry**
Vera never found out why Mum and Dad didn’t stay together.
She was three when they split. Mum took little Vera and left London, returning to their quiet village in Yorkshire.
“Managed to do it all, haven’t you?” Grandma Edith muttered as she met them at the garden gate. “Finished school, got married, had a baby, divorced. You young ones move so fast…”
They say you should judge a person by their actions, not their words.
Grandma Edith was a good grandmother. If she grumbled or fussed, well—those close to her had long grown used to it.
But her pancakes were divine! And the stories she told…
Vera loved when Grandma put her to bed. She’d perch on the edge of the mattress, tuck the quilt tight, and begin another tale in her slow, steady voice.
Of course, every child wants affection, not just stories. But Grandma Edith wasn’t the sentimental type. Kisses at bedtime, hugs, whispering *I love you*—that wasn’t her way.
And Mum? She’d learned to communicate the same.
Sometimes Vera wondered—if they loved her, why didn’t they show it?
But then she fell ill once, feverish for days, and the GP never came. Grandma Edith didn’t leave her side, night or day. Mum was away, visiting who-knows-where.
Looking back, Vera spent more time with Grandma than Mum.
*”When’s Mum coming home?”* she’d ask.
*”When she sorts herself out,”* Grandma would say.*
Vera didn’t understand what “sorting herself out” meant.
But she never dared ask.
Still, Mum’s trips grew rarer, then stopped altogether. Vera thought—*finally, she’s sorted it. Now she’s staying.*
But Mum was quiet. Distant. As if Vera barely existed.
Then she fell ill properly. At first, they thought it was nothing.
She stopped eating, lay in bed for hours—not sleeping, just staring at the ceiling.
*”She needs to see a specialist. Proper tests,”* said the neighbour, brought in by Grandma.
*”Not going,”* Mum whispered—first words in days.
Vera saw how much effort those few words took.
A week later, it got worse. They had to call an ambulance.
Vera didn’t know it then, but that was the last time she’d see her mother.
After that, it was just her and Grandma.
Those days blurred. Everything felt like a bad dream—Grandma crying, aging overnight… Vera clutching Mum’s perfume-scented gloves, sleeping under her dressing gown.
*”Should’ve been me,”* Grandma sighed. *”What a mess… And who’ll look after you now?”*
For the first time, her rough hand stroked Vera’s hair. The girl froze—what if she pulled away?
Slowly, life went on.
Vera went to school, helped with chores, did homework. Days passed, dull and identical.
Only later did she realise—she’d been happy. Grandma cared. Tried to be both mother and father.
Fifteen is no age to be left alone in the world. But fate had other plans.
One night, Grandma Edith went to sleep and didn’t wake up.
At the funeral, Vera couldn’t cry. Just emptiness inside.
They sent her to a children’s home.
Days later, the headmaster called her in.
*”Vera, we found your father. He’s coming for you today. Pack your things.”*
*”But I don’t know him.”*
Leaving with a stranger? Calling him *Dad?* She wasn’t ready.
*”You’ll get to know him. Be grateful he’s stepping up. Could’ve gone the other way.”*
Then—*”Well… hello,”* the tall man said awkwardly, looking at a daughter he hadn’t seen since she was small.
If he even remembered.
*”Come on,”* he took her bag and walked ahead.
Vera stood frozen.
*”Don’t be scared. I’m nervous too,”* he offered a shy smile, winking.
*”What a man,”* she thought, following a father she didn’t know.
Silence filled the car ride. Neither knew what to say.
At the flat, a well-dressed woman met them—hair styled, makeup perfect, jewellery glinting.
*”This is Olivia, my wife,”* Dad said. *”And this is my daughter, Vera.”*
*”Pleasure,”* Olivia said, eyes sharp.
*”Liar,”* Vera thought.
The flat was like a museum—paintings, plush carpets, a massive telly, heavy drapes. A grand dinner laid out.
Vera stayed a week. Never once called him *Dad.*
Olivia acted like she wasn’t there—lounging in bed, long showers, coffee in silence.
Breakfast was David’s job—thick-cut ham, pre-sliced bread. He poured Vera sugary tea, heavy on the leaves.
She hated it. But how do you tell a stranger?
David drove her to school in his Range Rover. She walked back alone.
*”Vera, lunch money,”* he’d press crumpled notes into her palm.
She saved every pound. Planning an escape. Back to the village.
*”They don’t want me. They won’t even look.”* Three more years, then adulthood. Work. The garden at home had potatoes, jars of preserves. She wouldn’t starve.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
One evening, cherry juice spilled on the cream carpet. She scrubbed, but the stain spread.
Olivia stormed in.
*”That’s it. Had enough! No kids of our own, now we’re stuck with strangers?”*
Vera watched. The mask had slipped.
Later, David came home. Voices rose behind the kitchen door. Then silence.
A knock. He entered.
*”Alright? Why’re sitting in the dark? Come eat. Upset about the rug? It’s just a rug! I’ll take it to the cleaners.”*
*”Not hungry.”*
*”What, I eat alone now?”*
*”Where’s Olivia?”*
*”Gone.”*
A pause. He rubbed his stubble.
*”She left… because of me?”*
*”Because of us. You’re mine. That means both or nothing. And… I’m getting used to you. Never thought I’d live with my girl.”*
*”Never thought I’d stay with you, Dad.”*
**Lesson:** Love doesn’t always come with hugs. Sometimes it’s just showing up.
