Dear Diary,
Two years ago my world turned upside down. Dad passed away and, after twenty years of marriage, I found myself divorced. I moved back into my father’s cottage in a tiny Yorkshire village because Id been laid off, and at forty I feared there was no hope left for a fresh job or a new love.
Misfortune seemed to follow me. The thatch roof, patched up by a local handyman, began leaking. I was too exhausted to haul timber, and the tradesmen who replaced the windows left the job halfdone, letting the cold wind slip through the gaps. To keep warm I gathered pine cones and burned piles of old books, but then the electricity failed and I had to turn off the heating. The landlord of the pub across the road kept making me offers I didn’t know whether to laugh at or weep over.
Just when I thought things couldnt get any worse, a miracle appeared at the village bus stop. A man named Tom Whitaker stepped off the bus, hair a little tousled, dressed in work overalls, his trade being roof repair. He asked if I needed a hand. I admitted I did, but I had nothing to pay him. He simply said that when I could afford it, wed settle the account. He fixed the roof, the leaking tap, the water meter, the garden fence, the steps and the windows.
One bitterly cold night I returned to find a warm fire crackling in the hearth and a steaming mug of herbal tea waiting beside it. It felt as if the universe had handed me exactly what my frozen throat and chilled feet needed. I realised Tom was my unexpected hero, modest yet capable, and Im careful not to mention his name in public lest he feel embarrassedour village is small and everyone knows each other.
Now my cottage and garden look as though a man’s steady hand has tended them. With Tom by my side I feel warmth and happiness, and the only fear I have left is the thought of losing him.
