**Diary Entry**
From childhood, I despised my name—Nancy. Old-fashioned, like something from a bygone era. When I was older, Mum told me about the girl Dad loved before her. A bright, beautiful Nancy who’d broken his heart and married another.
“Then he met me,” Mum said simply. “And when you were born, he named you after her. He never forgot his first love.”
“And you don’t mind?” I asked.
“No. He loves us both. A first love stays with a person forever. You’ll know one yourself someday.” She ruffled my hair.
“Was *his* Nancy ugly like me?” I scowled.
“Don’t be silly. Remember the ugly duckling? And if you hate your name, change it when you’re grown. What would you pick?”
I stood before the mirror, testing names like trying on dresses. None fit. With a sigh, I admitted no name would make me pretty—dull hair, narrow eyes, a sharp chin. A plain Jane.
Dad loved me almost as much as his pints. Stopping at the pub after work, he’d come home tipsy and cheerful, bearing chocolates or toys. If he forgot, he’d slip me cash instead. I saved every penny.
He drowned when I finished school—drunk, trying to fetch a ball from the river for some kids. Mum cursed him for leaving us. “What future is here? Go, maybe you’ll marry well.”
So I left. Medical school was a dream, but my village grades weren’t enough. I settled for nursing college, drawn to the crisp white uniforms.
My roommate Margot was everything I wasn’t—curly dark hair, olive skin, lips like ripe cherries. Beside her, I felt like a shadow. Margot knew it too, preening in my plainness. We got on well enough—until she met Peter, an engineering student.
I lost my heart the moment I saw him. Handsome as a film star. He’d wait for Margot, tapping his foot as she studied. “Hurry up,” he’d grumble.
“Take Nancy to the cinema. I’ve exams,” she’d snap.
I’d have died for a dim theatre seat beside him, but Peter never asked. Just sighed and left.
“Why string him along?” I fumed. “If someone waited for *me* like that—”
“He’s not for you. Girls flock to him now—imagine later. Aim lower,” Margot advised.
One evening, Peter arrived hungry. Margot was out. The smell of my frying bacon—Mum sent it from home—drew half the dorm.
“Join me? Margot’ll be back soon,” I offered. He devoured seconds. “You’ll make someone a fine wife,” he said, leaning back like a contented cat.
Then, one Saturday, Margot left town. “Apologise to Peter for me,” she said.
I cooked my best.
“I bought tickets,” Peter frowned when he heard she’d gone.
“Take me instead,” I dared. “Unless you’re embarrassed?”
“Course not. Get ready.”
Two hours beside him! Maybe he’d even hold my hand… I dashed out before he changed his mind.
He barely looked at me. I chattered nervously, linking arms like friends. At the cinema, I pretended fear during a tense scene and gripped his hand till the credits.
After, he offered dinner out.
“Waste of money. I’ve bacon and mash at home.”
With wine, he grew drowsy. As I washed up, he slumped on Margot’s bed. I sat beside him. He nuzzled my shoulder—then kissed me. Maybe he thought I was Margot. Maybe he didn’t care. I kissed back, breathless.
“Sorry,” he mumbled next morning. “Don’t tell Margot.”
Three weeks later, I was pregnant.
“Who’s the father?” Margot demanded.
“Peter.”
She laughed. “He won’t marry you.”
Peter shrugged when I told him. “Sort it yourself.”
I kept the baby. Margot and classmates pitched in for supplies. “Going home?” she asked at the hospital.
I shook my head. “Dorm won’t keep you. Rent a room—I found one.”
The landlady, Mrs. Rose, took pity. Peter sent money, then vanished. “He’s seeing someone,” Margot said before leaving. I wept.
“Stop that, you’ll spoil your milk,” Mrs. Rose scolded.
Money ran out, but Mrs. Rose adored the baby. Soon, her friends paid me for injections. I took night shifts at the hospital to afford rent.
One day, I bumped into Peter. He peeked at the pram. Then he started visiting, bringing gifts.
When Mrs. Rose died, her will left me the flat. Peter proposed. “I’m no cad.”
I knew he wanted the flat, not me. But I said yes. He drifted in and out, living his own life. Still, I was glad—he always came back.
Until he didn’t.
He grew distant, pushing pasta round his plate. I called his mate and learned the truth—a pub singer, all legs and blonde curls. I saw her once. Pretty, yes. I’d gained weight after the baby; my waist was history.
Peter came home late one night. “I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ll send child support.”
“Go,” I said. He’d married me, not loved me.
Time passed. Mum fell ill. I sold her cottage, took a mortgage on a bigger flat. She died before we moved in. My daughter grew beautiful. Peter? A memory.
Then the singer appeared at my door—aged, harried. “Take him. He’s in hospital. Drunk, fell at work. They’re discharging him.”
“Over my dead body!” I shouted at the closed door.
But I went.
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here because she asked,” I told Peter.
He studied me. “You’ve changed.”
The doctor pressed. “He’s your daughter’s father.”
I brought him home. My daughter glared. “Why? He left us!”
“He’s your dad. Always will be.”
Peter hobbled on crutches. I massaged his scars. “Hurting me on purpose?” he griped.
“Maybe.”
He improved. Started cooking simple meals.
“Got somewhere to live?” I asked eventually.
“You’re kicking me out?” He wept. “Nance, you’re the best woman I’ve known. I’m done with all that. Don’t make me leave.”
Grey, thin, leaning on a cane—no trace of the pretty boy I’d loved. But no queue of suitors waited for me either. Our daughter would marry soon. I’d be alone. And Peter… he’d always been my only love.
I stroked his hair. He kissed my palm, lips damp with tears.
“Supper,” I said, standing.
“Got any bacon? Fry it up with potatoes, like before.”
**Lesson:** Love isn’t always fair. But sometimes, against all odds, it endures—not as you dreamed, but as it is.
