Dear diary,
It was a chilly Tuesday when I found myself comforting my neighbour, Mrs. Whitaker, after shed just delivered a tiny, premature but stubborn little one. Dont worry, love, I told her, your baby will be fine, as will your daughter andyesyour granddaughter. She sniffed, thanked God, and after the doctor disappeared into the consultation room, muttered under her breath, What a sorrow.
That sorrow first struck the Whitaker family six months ago. It began with the arrival of Mrs. Hawthorne, the chatty old lady from next door, who was sipping tea with a spoonful of jam when she accidentally let slip, When are you expecting? Have you started buying nappies yet? I stared at her, bewildered. What are you on about? I snapped. Did you see my sister Claras calf run out of the barn with a towel over her mouth? Mrs. Hawthorne laughed, Maybe you ate something you shouldnt have. Youve never been through a pregnancy, so you dont know whats what. Im not a midwife, Im just nosy.
That evening Aunt Victoria grilled my sister Clara about the whole affair, then we both broke down, cursing the fact that an unplanned childstill unborn at that pointhad brought such chaos into our modest cottage. The arrival of little Lily, a hoarsevoiced girl, brought no joy, only endless chores, a lingering sting of shame and a feeling of being unwanted. Clara never showed any warmth toward the child; she only lifted her when feeding or when she was about to wander off, nothing more. Aunt Victoria watched Lily with the same indifferent stare, offering no affection. It was already the fourth grandchild in the family, and our own daughters own child was barely a blip on the radar. So Lily grew up on shaky legs, always feeling as though she were a misfit.
A year later Clara left for the new workers settlement on the outskirts of Sheffield, hoping to find a slice of happiness for herself. Lily stayed behind with Aunt Victoria, who, despite being family, was no more than a distant caregiver. Lily required no special attention; she ate what was given, fell asleep at the appointed hour, never fell ill. The local doctor was rightLily was a sturdy child, yet still unloved.
Lily lived under Aunt Victorias roof until she was seven. In those years Clara learned the trade of a house painter, got married, and welcomed a son named Colin. It was then that Clara thought of Lily again, planning that perhaps Lily could become a helper for her own mother. When Clara visited the village, Lily, who saw her mother only twice a year, offered no bright smile. Oh, Lily, Clara said, youre as if you werent my own. Lily stood there, as if she were a stranger in her own home.
Aunt Victoria, though she shed a tear as I said goodbye, soon had two new grandchildren arrivesweet Lena and bright Olivia, the children of her eldest son. The bustle of caring for them quickly erased Lily from her thoughts. Lily felt a pang when the newly hatched chicks left the nest, but she never blamed Aunt Victoria for that.
In the workers settlement Lily was never thrilled, yet she had no alternative. Over time she made friends, enrolled at the local school, did her homework, ran errands for bread and milk, peeled potatoes before her mother got home. When she grew older she escorted Colin to nursery and, imitating her mother, retorted to a cheeky lad, Watch your step, youre testing my patience. Im running on fumes and youre giving me none! Lily never heard words of love from anyone; she never expected them, having spent her whole life unloved. She barely noticed how her friends mothers called them sweetheart or darling, or how her own mother would sometimes call Colin sunshine or kitten. Lily, now called just Lily, believed she could never be anyones sunshine.
At fifteen Lily fled the cold, unwelcoming house that had never felt like home. She enrolled in a culinary college in Leeds, dreaming of devouring pastries until she burst. In the dorm she shared a room with three other girls, becoming her own little landlady. Then she met Tom, a lanky lad with a shy smile. Despite the grey November, his words warmed her: Youre my favourite. Lily, accustomed to perpetual neglect, felt a flicker of happiness.
Soon after a nasty stomach bug kept her from seeing the doctor in time, but at eighteen she finally married Tom at the registry office, clutching a hastily obtained medical certificate. Their married life began, and with it the brief end of her first love. They moved into a modest terraced house that Toms parents owned. Toms mother and grandmother were distant, yet they allowed Lily a room of her own. She wasnt the first, nor will be the last, to make a modest life in a small flat. Perhaps it was for the best; Tom promised to settle down, and soon they hoped for a child.
Lilys former friend from the settlement bragged, Youre lucky, youll live in the city, become a city girl. Lily didnt argue; the city life was no glamourher house had a garden, but the water came from a communal tap at the end of the lane. Still she didnt complain; she got used to the cold water splashing into buckets, the chill on her feet, and the quiet joy of an unborn baby stirring within her. Her motherinlaw scolded her, but Lily kept her head down.
Tom seemed to care for her at first, even if only for a day or two, before he drifted away with his mates. His mother and grandmother didnt drive her out; they let her stay, hoping perhaps shed find something better. It didnt happen. After a few months Tom introduced another woman, declaring he never loved Lily and never would. Lily, exhausted, gathered her few belongings, obeyed his mothers harsh orders, and slipped out of the house, closing the door behind her.
She moved to a factory dormitory. The mess hall served decent meals, the canteen was nearby, and the workers club was a short walk away. Live well, enjoy yourself, theyd say. Lily found a rhythmwork, club, cinema, repeat. She rarely visited her own mother, stepfather, or brother; they never asked for her, and she didnt press.
When Aunt Victoria passed away, Lily was twentyone. She attended the funeral, walked past the familiar garden shed once known. Aunt Victorias will left the cottage to Lena and Olivia. Lily held no grudge; they were the cherished grandchildren, the berries of their grandmother, while she remained the overlooked branch.
The estate sparked a bitter feud among the relatives over a modest £500. The loudest wails came from Clara, Lilys sister, who lamented that her dear Colin had been left without a bentover spoon. Is he not a grandson? she cried, forgetting her own elder daughter. Lily received no spoon, no sentiment.
Lily tried to find love a couple of times, dating men who either drank and chased after women or beat when drunk. She never pursued the registry office with any fervour; shed already been there once and that was enough. The reasons were similar each time: one man was a drunkard, the other a brute. She decided shed rather stay away from that drama, tossed her few possessions into a cheap suitcase, and returned to the dorm where her friends waited.
For over a decade she roamed various dorms, weary of foreign beds. By then she was nearing thirty, and any woman in her thirties craved a corner of her owna kettle, a cupboard, a place to hang her pan. Single apartments were a luxury reserved for families, not for solitary women.
Occasionally shed pop into the staff kitchen of Aunt Asha, who washed floors at the factory, to have a hearttoheart. After a few months Asha, noticing Lilys steady nature, suggested her widowed nephew Mathew, a kind man who worked the night shift. Hes gentle, doesnt raise his voice, Asha said. He only drinks on holidays and in moderation. He may not be a poet, but hes reliable, and his little niece could become your mother someday. Lily thought it over and moved in with Mathew.
She brightened his modest flat for the May holidaysnew curtains, a couple of little dresses for his baby girl, a soft blanket. The child, named Sophie, soon began to babble, calling Lily Mum. Mathew was indeed gentle; he never called her harsh names, paid his wages on time, and never shouted. He never whispered sweet nothings, but Lily had grown accustomed to a life without such words.
Three years into the marriage, Lily finally heard love spoken to her, not from Mathew, but from Sophie. The little girl ran up from the garden, clutching a bunch of dandelions, pressed them to Lilys cheek, and whispered, Mum, I love you. I love you more than Daddy, more than Aunt Asha, more than my doll. Lily held her, laughing and crying at once, finally feeling the warmth shed been denied since birth.
A year later Lily gave birth to a son, Ilya. Mathew, caring as ever, rose in the night to change diapers, fetched the stroller from the stairwell, and helped hang the fresh curtains. The factory eventually allotted them a spacious, bright flat, and Lily finally thought, Theres a place to call home. They raised their children, welcomed grandchildren, and Lily, now greyhaired but content, spent afternoons on the garden bench making jam and marmalade.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia, her face flushed with excitement.
Grandma, I love you too, replied Dennis, her brother, echoing the sentiment.
Grandma, I love you, gurgled little Martha, her eyes bright.
Everyone loves their grandma, declared Mathew, his voice warm as he tucked his hands into his pockets.
Lily brushed away a stray tear, astonished at how the years had turned a life once marked by neglect into one brimming with affection. Who would have thought that a girl born unloved could one day be surrounded by such love?
