**Diary Entry A Journey of Grace**
They laughed at her, called her names”Beanpole,” “Giraffe”but years later, when she walked into the school reunion
From childhood, Angeline felt like a creature from another world, lost among the graceful, confident girls at school. Her tall, awkward frame, long limbs, and slightly uneven gait made her stand outalways the target of whispers and stares. She was like a young sapling swaying clumsily in a garden of roses.
“Hey, Giraffe!” Her desk-mate once jabbed her shoulder with a finger. “Careful, or youll knock your head on the doorframe!” The classroom erupted in laughter, the cruel sound bouncing off the walls, ringing in her ears.
A hot flush spread across her cheeks as she dropped her gaze to her notebook. Over time, shed learned to hide, burying herself in sketches and scribbles along the margins. Silence was safer than protestevery argument only fueled the fire.
The walk home was her sanctuary, a quiet bridge between two worlds. She and her mum lived in a cosy cottage on the edge of town, its walls smelling of apples and old wood.
“Come here, love,” her mum would say, unrolling a length of grey cotton from the market. “Thisll make a lovely spring dress.” Angeline would settle at the old sewing machine, guiding the fabric with steady hands. The hum of the machine soothed her, stitching order into her thoughts.
But school always dragged her back to reality.
“Look at that skirt!” the girls would whisper-laugh in the corridors. “Did she dig it out of her grans curtains?”
“God, she walks like a baby deer on ice!”
Angeline would stride past, chin high, pretending not to hear. But at night, staring at the ceiling, shed whisper, “Why is everything so easy for them? Their clothes, their smiles, the way they move Why do I feel like Im built wrong?”
After secondary school, she left for a fashion college in Manchester. The city was loud, bright, overwhelmingbut it gave her hope. *Maybe here, Ill finally belong.*
The college seemed like a fresh start: spacious studios, new faces, teachers who took her seriously. But the hope didnt last.
Within days, the whispers began.
“Look at her blousedid she *make* that?” one girl sneered, tugging at a loose thread.
“Bet she stitched it herselfprobably cant afford real clothes.”
The laughter stung just as sharply as before.
One break, her dorm-mate, Sarah, plopped beside her.
“Angie, dont take it so hard,” she said, half-smiling. “Youve just got an unusual look. Maybe loosen the braids? Add some lipstick? Blend in a bit.”
Angeline blinked. “I dont own lipstick. And it wouldnt change anything.”
Sarah shrugged. “Suit yourself. But youre not even trying.”
The words carved deeper than the taunts.
Her only refuge was her work. In pattern-drafting class, her lines were the steadiest, her measurements flawless.
“Angeline,” the tutor once said, “youve a natural eye. With practice, you could be brilliant.”
Then, one day, she dropped her folder in the hall. Papers scattered, and the laughter erupted again.
“Future fashion designer, everyone!”
She crouched, scrambling to gather the sheets, tears blurring her vision
“Ladies,” the headmistresss voice cut in. “Meet Mr. Thomas Whitaker. Hell be teaching Advanced Design.”
Angeline looked up. He was nothing like the otherstall, composed, in a crisp linen suit, his gaze steady and warm.
“Design,” he said, scanning the room, “isnt just drawing lines. Its seeing the shape before it exists. And to seeyou need patience.”
The word *patience* settled in her chest. It was the one thing she had.
After class, as others rushed out, she stayed to tidy her sketches. A shadow fell across her desk.
“Angeline Foster?” Mr. Whitaker held one of her drafts. “These linestheyre precise. No ruler?”
“Freehand,” she admitted. “My mums a seamstress.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Im starting a design workshop. Saturdays. You should join.”
Her face burned. A joke?
“Me? But Im”
“You dont believe in yourself,” he said simply. “Thats a different thing.”
For a week, she agonised. Then, stitching a simple blouse to steady her nerves, she went.
The studio was small but brighttables stacked with fabric swatches, scissors, measuring tapes. The air smelled of chalk and fresh paper. She sat at the back, barely breathing.
Mr. Whitaker moved between tables, adjusting patterns. When he reached her, her pencil nearly slipped.
“Herethe shoulder lines too narrow. Shift the seam.”
“Like this?”
“Exactly. Youve good intuition. Trust it.”
That evening, she lingered, sewing her first sample. The collar sat crooked; the stitching wavered.
“Its rubbish,” she muttered.
He turned the blouse in his hands. “No. Its not perfectbut its *real*. Thats rare.”
Her throat tightened. No one had ever called her work *real*.
Weeks passed. She arrived early, left late. Her stitches grew steadier.
One day, he paused by her desk. “Youve stopped slouching.”
“Have I?” She straightened, surprised.
“People do, when they love what theyre doing.”
She smiledthe first real one in years.
They walked out together once, the evening sun gilding the college windows.
“Tired?” he asked.
“No. I feel alive.”
“Good.” He glanced at her. “Talents common. What matters is the work.”
The world began to shift. The taunts still came, but they bounced off somehow.
At graduation, she wore a dress of her own makingdeep blue, simple, elegant. The whispers turned to stares.
“*You* made that?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Whitaker watched from the corner, his gaze knowing. When the music slowed, he approached.
“May I?”
His hand was warm at her waist. By the songs end, he whispered, “Youve grown, Angeline. Not just as a designer.”
Years later, her small atelier in London thrived. Women sought her piecesunderstated, confident, made to *fit*.
One evening, flipping through an old school newsletter, she paused at the reunion notice.
“Going?” Thomas asked.
She touched the invitation. “Yes. I want to see herthe girl I was.”
She chose a tailored navy suit, her hair sleek. The school hadnt changed.
The gasps were instant.
“*Angeline?*”
“It cant be”
The class clown, now balding, gaped. “Blimey! We thought youdwell, never mind.”
She smiled. “Life had other plans.”
Later, at home, Thomas handed her tea. “Recognised you, then?”
“Not really.” She curled into her armchair. “But thats alright. *I* know who I am now.”
In her studio, sketches for the new collection waited. She ran a hand over the fabricsoft, heavy, ripe with possibility.
Thomas leaned in. “Whats next?”
She smiled. “We keep sewing. Beautiful things, for women who need them.”
Outside, rain pattered against the window. The room smelled of ironed cotton and fresh ideas.
She knew, deep down, the best was yet to come.
