**Diary Entry**
I never considered myself weak. Quite the oppositepeople called me the picture of logic, cold reason, and iron will. Growing up in an orphanage taught me one unbreakable rule: you can only rely on yourself. No one will come to your rescue. No one will save you. In this world, you must be strong and calculated, like a chess player seeing ten moves ahead. I built my life with the precision of an architect drafting a houseno slips, no impulses, no naive dreams.
First, teacher training college. Then, a modest but stable jobprimary school teacher. My own flat, small but mine. And after that? Marriage. Not for passion or youthful infatuation, but deliberately. To a steady, dependable mansomeone with whom I could build the family Id never had, the “building block of society” Id read about but never known.
I despised those who chose recklessnessgirls who threw themselves at the first man they met, got pregnant at sixteen, and ruined their lives in one impulsive moment. I was different. Smarter. Stronger. I was sure Id never fall.
Then, into my carefully constructed world, came a man stronger than all my plans.
**Jake.**
Tall, with eyes the colour of a July skybright, piercing, dangerously beautiful. He worked at the garage near my halls, laughed too loud, handed out chocolate bars, and asked me out even when his pockets were empty. He drove an old but spotless Vauxhall, blasting music as we cruised the outskirts of town, spinning wild tales about his escapades. He seemed free, generous, unshakeable. Behind his shoulders, I wanted to hide from the world.
And for the first time, I let myself dissolve into feeling. For the first time, emotion overruled cold calculation. The whirlwind of passion swept me up, and everything Id built crumbled like a house of cards. I lost controland, just as Id feared, that was when I crossed the dangerous line.
When the two pink lines confirmed my worst fear, my heart clenched with icy terror. But inside, a stubborn ember of hope flickered. I went to Jake with shaking hands and a frantic pulse, imagining hed pull me close, promise wed figure it out together, that wed marry, that this was the start of our life.
Reality hit like a gut punch.
Jake listenedthen laughed. Not loudly. Dryly. Coldly. With a mocking edge that sent chills down my spine.
“You serious?” He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Liz, come on. I never signed up for fatherhood. Got enough on my plate as it is. Dont need a kid. And honestly? With that baggage, neither do you.”
Every word stung like a slap. He spoke as if discussing the weather, as if I were just an inconvenient obstacle in his carefree life. His eyes didnt flicker. His heart didnt waver. He didnt see the woman hed claimed to love, our future, our child. Just a problem.
The world Id just begun to paint in warm hues turned grey again. Empty. Frozen. I walked home numb, tears streaming, but insidenothing. All my plans, shattered. My future, erased. I felt alone, betrayed, doomed. The only thing ahead was pain, silence, and the abortion Id booked for the next day.
But fate had other plans.
That evening, lying in my dorm bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, the phone rang. Insistent. Relentless. As if it knew it couldnt be ignored.
I picked up. A mans voice, clipped and professional, introduced himself as a solicitor.
“Miss Elizabeth Carter, this concerns an inheritance left by your aunt, Margaret Anne Whitmore.”
“What aunt?” I whispered, disbelieving. “I dont have an aunt. Ive got no one.”
“Nevertheless,” he continued calmly, “youre required to attend the reading of the will. Its urgent.”
The next day, in an office that smelled of old paper and wax, I heard words that flipped my life upside down for the second time in a weekonly this time, toward light, not darkness.
The elderly solicitor adjusted his glasses and read aloud the will of Margaret Anne Whitmorea name Id never heard before. According to the documents, I was to inherit: a flat in the city, a large countryside cottage with land, and a substantial sum in a bank account.
I sat frozen. But there was one condition. A strict, unusual one. Id only receive it all if I lived in that cottage for exactly one year with a man named Simon Edward Graves, whod inherited the garage and an old car under the same will.
“Who is this woman?” I asked, voice trembling. “And whos Simon?”
The solicitor sighed heavily, setting the papers down.
“Margaret Anne wasnt just your aunt, Elizabeth. She was your grandmother.”
The shock hit so hard the room spun.
Turns out, my story wasnt just “left at a childrens home.” My motherMargarets daughterhad me too young. My father, a man with a criminal past, blackmailed my grandmother, demanding money and threatening to take me. To protect me, Margaret arranged with my mother to stage an abandonment, placing me in care until the danger passed.
But “later” never came. Threats kept her away. Then, my trail vanished in the system. All those years, my grandmother searched. And found metoo late. Ill, she never got to meet me. And Simon? The son of her closest friend, a boy shed taken in as a teenageralmost a grandson to her.
Everything I knew about my past collapsed. I wasnt “no ones.” I wasnt abandoned. I had a grandmother who loved me, searched for me, grieved for me. Suddenly, the decision Id made that morning felt monstrous. Walking out, I tore up the abortion referral and tossed it in the bin.
For the first time in years, something else burned inside me. Not just hopelight. Now, I had a home. Money. Roots. Familyunexpected, but mine.
“Ill manage,” I whispered into the damp air. “My baby and I will survive. More than thatwell be happy.”
A week later, I arrived at the cottage. It stood apartsturdy, built of oak beams, with a neat front garden where every flower mustve bloomed come spring. By the gate, a tall man in a worn jacket waited, leaning against the post, watching me with faint amusement.
“So youre the long-lost granddaughter,” he said instead of hello, voice low and rough. “Simon.”
“Elizabeth,” I replied flatly, irritation flaring. His tone made it sound like Id come to steal his last penny.
“Right then, heiress. Show me how you plan to survive a year here,” he said, swinging the gate open.
Inside, the cottage was warm, welcoming, smelling of wood and herbs. On the table sat a photo of an elderly woman with kind, wise eyes. Granny Margaret.
“She waited for you,” Simon said quietly, catching my gaze. “Kept saying, Ill find my Lizzie. Ill find her and bring her home.”
The love and grief in his voice struck me. He wasnt just a tenant. He belonged here, by hearts right. And I? A stranger with a piece of paper.
“Listen,” I said firmly. “I need this as much as you do. I wont get in your way. I just need this year to stand on my own feet. Lets agreewell tolerate each other.”
Simon blinked, surprised. Hed expected tears, tantrums. Not a business proposal.
“Tolerate, eh?” He smirked, the edge gone. “Fine. Deal. My rooms upstairs. Yours is down here, faces the garden. Kitchens shared. Dont get lost.”
He turned to the window, and in that moment, I didnt see a sharp-tongued manjust a tired, lonely soul. Behind his sarcasm was the same grief. The same loss. And that thought became the first thread between us.
Life shifted. I got a job as a cooks assistant at the local school. Modest, but steady. Every pound earned steadied me. I made the cottage minedug the vegetable patch, planted herbs, filled the garden with marigolds and asters, just like Id loved as a child. The house came alive under my care.
Simon kept his distance at first, but watched. Saw my belly grow. Said nothing, as if it werent his business. Until the day I tried moving a heavy cupboard alone.
“Are you mad?” he snapped, storming in. “Put that down!”
He shifted it effortlessly, then fixed me with a glare. “Try lifting anything heavy again, and Ill toss you out, will or no will. Understood?”
From then, everything changed. Simon took quiet chargebringing milk, fixing the tap, chopping firewood. No sweet words, but his care spoke louder than any confession.
Even
