**Diary Entry**
Ive always known hardship. Growing up in an orphanage in Manchester, I was surrounded by kids just like meno family, no roots. Life wasnt kind, but it taught me to stand up for myself and the littler ones. Fairness mattered to me, even when it meant getting into scrapes. I never cried, though. If I was hurting, it was for something right.
My name was *Albina*, but everyone at the home called me *Albie*. The day I turned eighteen, they shoved me out into the world. At least I had a tradeId trained as a cook and had already been working at a café for months, helping in the kitchen. They gave me a room in a dingy hostel, barely fit for rats.
Around that time, I met *Vince*. He was three years older, drove a delivery van for the same café. Things moved fast. Before long, I was living in his tiny flat, a leftover from his gran.
Come stay with me, Albie, hed said. That hostels a dump. The locks dont even work.
I liked Vince. He was steady, serious. But one night, talking about the future, he dropped it plain:
Cant stand kids. Noise, mess, hassleno thanks.
I froze. But if its *your* child, your own bloodhow can you say that?
He shrugged. Dont like em. End of.
It stung, but I pushed it aside. *Maybe hell change. If we marry, hell come round.*
At work, I gave it my all. The head cook, *Valerie*, was brilliantwhen she showed up. Too often, shed call in sick, hungover. The boss, *Mr. Carter*, would grumble, One more slip, youre out. But he kept her; customers loved her food.
Still, I caught him talking to the manager once: Vals on thin ice. Albies green, but shes got heart. Might just replace her.
I never told a soul, not even Vince.
Then Val skipped a whole week. I covered, and no one noticed. When she finally dragged herself inshaking, hollow-eyedMr. Carter fired her on the spot.
Youre head cook now, Albie. Dont let me down.
I was terrifiedbut thrilled. The pay was decent. For the first time, I felt like Id *earned* something.
Vince brought champagne that night. To your promotion. Knew youd make it. He smirked.
Wed been together three years. He didnt drink, didnt shout, didnt hit. But he never mentioned marriage. I wondered*what if Im pregnant? Would that change his mind?*
Then it happened. The doctor confirmed it. I was over the moon. *Mine. Someone to love.*
Vince came home to find me glowing. Whats got you smiling?
Were having a baby.
His face went flat. Not happening. Either get rid of it, or get out. I told youI dont do kids.
His calmness scared me more than rage. But where would I go?
Not my problem.
That night, I packed my things and went back to the hostel. Room 35 greeted me with peeling paint and the stink of damp. A stained mattress, a wobbly chairhome sweet home.
Next door, some drunk was shouting. I locked the flimsy bolt and pressed a hand to my stomach. *Well manage.*
The kitchen was grimgreasy stove, roaches skittering. But I scrubbed my room raw, washed the grimy window. For the first time, I felt free.
Slowly, I built a life. *Uncle Pete*, the handyman, fixed my door. At work, *Tim*, a waiter, started walking me home. One evening, over tea, he looked at me*really* lookedand said, Marry me.
I laughed. Tim, Im pregnant
I know. Ill love that baby like my own.
The difference between him and Vince was night and day. Tim was warmth, steadiness.
When my boy was born, Tim met us at the hostel with flowers. I barely recognized our roomfresh paint, balloons, a crib.
*Well be alright.*
