28October2025
Dear Diary,
Ive always been the tiny Elsie of our little worldpetite, with a waist that could slip through a teacup, bright green eyes that seem to sparkle even in the dullest of factories, and a laugh that makes any bloke pause his tea. Men have always taken a shine to women of my size; theyre like pocketsized treasures they want to cradle, to protect, to pamper. As the saying goes, a little pony makes the best companion.
Singing, though, has been my true calling. My voice sits in the mezzosoprano range, and I cannot help but hum, belt, or croon wherever I find a moment. By day Im a laboratory technician at the steel plant in Sheffield, but my heart belongs to the choir rehearsals, the community music nights, the modest local stage. At first I stepped onto the boards timidly, then with a little more daring; the urge to create art has always driven me.
I never rushed into marriage, nor even entertained thoughts of children. To me, a husband and a brood seemed like a heap of responsibilities that would steal the hours Id rather spend with a song. My single friends, now all mothers, would nod sympathetically as I spoke, then drift off to their maternity leaves, one after another, as if my path were an oddity.
It was at work that I first met Arthur Sinclair, the foreman of our production line. Id regularly hand him my lab reports, and each time I passed his office I was stopped by his secretary, Zoë Clarke, who guarded the door with a jealous zeal. She would snatch my documents, thank me politely, and say, Youre free, Miss. Ill pass everything to MrSinclair. Thus, I never actually met the man behind the desk.
One morning Zoë called in sick. I knocked gently, entered, and found Arthur himself at the far end of the long table. He looked up, smiled, and asked, Come in, love. What do you need? I stammered, Just the test results. He chuckled, New around here? I replied, No, Ive been here for over five years. He shook his head, I hadnt noticed. My mistake. We shared a laugh, and from then on I placed my reports directly on his desk. Zoë, upon returning, would turn her back on me, pretending to water the ferns by the window.
I was twentyseven then, and a brief office romance blossomed. Arthur was respectable, not the reckless type that the tabloids love to glorify. He even suggested marriage quite swiftly. I laughed it off at firstwhy trade my freedom for the trappings of a conventional life? Yet, as his friends pressed the pointYouve got a proper man courting you! When will you settle down? Youll be left twiddling your thumbs!I eventually gave in.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a modest wedding dress, veil, and tiny shoes, I resembled a delicate doll. Arthur beamed with pride. I, however, kept my emotions in check, reserving my energy for performances and rehearsals.
Our honeymoon was brief, and soon I was booked for regional toursconcerts in community halls, retreats, even some teaching gigs. Arthur, ever the gentleman, asked only one thing: Elsie, could you sort out dinner and maybe iron my shirt? I replied with a sigh, Arthur, Im in a hurry! He kissed my nose and said, Sorry, love, Im just nagging. Go on, sing! This pattern repeated itself countless times.
Arthur learned to manage meals with readymade meals, to wash his own shirts, and to fry a decent omeletteafter all, Im not a housewife by nature. As time went on, I left the plant entirely to focus on my singing career, while Arthur settled into his managerial role.
One afternoon, while Arthur was sipping coffee in his office, his secretary Zoë, ever the schemer, offered him a plate of cherryfilled pastries. Try these, I baked them myself, she cooed. He feigned gratitude, Thanks, Zoë. I do love a good cherry tart. She then suggested mending a loose button on his jacket, to which he replied, My wifes too busy with her own matters. Zoë muttered under her breath, Of course, the wife sings and Im left to fetch soup.
Zoës attention grew, and soon she was bringing him homemade soups, stews, and the occasional packed lunch. Arthur, though flattered, never crossed any line; he remained loyal to me, grateful for Zoës assistance but always mindful of his marital vows.
Four years into our marriage, the house still echoed with just the two of us. I never voiced a desire for children, yet one day I felt a sudden change in my body. A doctor told me it was too late for any reversal and advised me to embrace motherhood. Arthur, oblivious, started researching the best prams and cribs, dreaming of a future with a tiny bundle.
The reality, however, was far harsher. I sought an illegal termination, but the doctor refused, urging me to carry the child to term. I felt trapped, while Arthur, blissfully ignorant, continued to shop for baby gear. When he finally confided the news to Zoë, shewho had always kept a friendly distancehanded in her resignation with a sigh, Im out, Arthur. My cherry filling is gone.
A new secretary, Margaret Doyle, took over. She was an older woman, wellconnected, and immediately reprimanded Arthur: Youve lost a good one, Arthur! Zoe was loyal! He snapped back, Do your work, Margaret. The tension lingered.
The babya little girlarrived. The midwife, delighted, asked, What shall we call her? I snapped, None of your business. Arthur rushed in with a bouquet, but I refused to see him. I wept in the hospital ward while other new mothers whispered, What a drama! Im expecting twins; my husband will kill me! Their chatter felt like a cruel soundtrack to my own misery.
A nurse tried to hand me a bunch of roses from Arthur. I stared at them, then turned away. The next day Arthur was sent on a twoweek assignment to a new plant. He returned, breathless, expecting to see his daughter, only to find me hunched over sheet music, humming.
Wheres our child? he demanded. I whispered, I signed the consent form I gave the baby up. His face turned ashen. Youre mad! Thats our blood! He ripped my music sheets to shreds, hurled them at me, and shouted, You fool!
I never saw him look at me the same way again. He packed his belongings into a battered suitcase, slammed the door, and vanished into the rainy streets of Sheffield. I remembered my mothers old saying, A bad wife drives the rain out; a good one keeps it at bay. I wandered the city, shouting for anyone who might hear, Where has love gone?! But the world moved on, indifferent.
Weeks later, I learned from Zoës former phone number that she had left for good. Margaret, now my new secretary, handed me the number with a halfsmile, We all have our little secrets, dont we?
In the months that followed, I threw myself back into singing. I performed at a holiday resort, then at local festivals, where audiences clapped, called for encores, and tossed flowers onto the stage. I eventually stopped touring and began teaching voice to children, despite never having a formal music degree. My experience was enough to guide eager youngsters.
One day a colleague asked me to audition a girl theyd brought ina tenyearold named Mary. I welcomed her, and after a few minutes of testing her range, Arthur appeared with two girls, the older one about twelve. He pointed to a seat, saying, Sit, Amelia. To my shock, he recognized me instantly. Lord, why do we keep running into each other? he muttered.
I tried to stay calm, Take a breath, Tom. Lets hear your daughter. He took the younger girls hand and left the room. The audition went well; the girl reminded me of my own teenage selfsmall, bright, with a giggle that matched mine.
When the session ended, I asked, How old are you, sweetheart? She answered proudly, Thirteen, my names Lucy. I told Arthur, Your daughters got talent. Bring her back if you like. He replied, Im married now, to Zoë. Weve got a daughter together, as well as a stepdaughter, Amelia. I stared, bewildered. You mean the girl I gave birth to? I asked. He shook his head, You just gave birth to her, thats all.
The hallway filled with the shouts of other children: Girls, lets run to meet Mum! I sat, my mind a tangled mess of past and present, of a child Id once abandoned and a man Id once loved.
Thirteen years have slipped by since that fateful decision. My life feels like a hollowed-out cottage: a lonely cat named Melody waiting by the kitchen bowl, a cracked armchair covered in a threadbare blanket, and a silence that hums with the echoes of songs unsung. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window and thought, Perhaps I sang the wrong tune. If only I could turn the pages backyet summer never returns twice a year.
Now I sit here, pen in hand, recalling the melody of my whole life, piece by piece. Its a melancholy tune, built on castles of air and a past that haunts me still. As the evening settles, I think of the old fable about the grasshopper who sang all summer, and I wonder if I, too, sang too much and lived too little.
