Dear Diary,
Im on the train heading to the old schoolmates reunion, a gathering I havent attended in thirty years. Time has sprinted past ever since I left school and headed straight to university in Birmingham. First the lectures, then the first job, and later the decision to strike out on my own. I set up a small tech firm, weathered the highs and the inevitable lows, and now, with a modest fortune, I find myself wondering about the people I left behind.
When I have a spare moment I scroll through their faces on social media, revisiting the snapshots of our teenage years. My thoughts keep returning to Poppy. Back at school I was utterly smitten with her, though she never gave me the time of day. She saw me as just another bookworm. The last time I tried to impress her I brought a bunch of daisies, but she hopped onto the back of Jamess motorbike without a glance at the flowers and sped off, stirring up a cloud of dust. I never approached her again; I watched her disappear down the country lane, wishing I could have asked her to ride with me, to help her in some way. I never did.
I never had a tight circle at school; most of my evenings were spent buried in textbooks. Only a handful of lads joined me for extra maths sessions, and we all crammed for the entrance exams together. I arrived at the reunion in high spirits, a small parcel of gifts for each old classmate tucked under my arm. I made sure not to overlook anyone.
We gathered in a cosy café, laughter echoing as memories of school floated around. I found myself watching Poppy more than anyone else, studying her as if she were a puzzle I could finally solve. She kept her distance, eyes glued to her phone. After school she had married James, but they no longer lived together, I learned later; she was now a single mother, caring for a chronically ill child.
I decided to speak to her, to see if there was any common ground. Her reply was sharp, bordering on hostile.
Do you live in that plush manor and pretend you know nothing of our struggles? Ive seen your house. Your wife never works, she just flits from one salon to anotherIve seen it. You must have a whole staff, yet you never show them in your pictures. Youve got kids studying abroad, and I have a sick son. What are we supposed to discuss? You wouldnt understand.
Poppy, am I to blame for your troubles?
In this country theres never enough money for sick children, while people like you sit on their piles and get greedy!
My blood boiled. I dont like this subject being thrust at me, but I had something to say.
How many sick children have you helped, Poppy?
Im the one whos ill! And yes, I sometimes send text messages offering help.
I regularly donate large sums to charities, though I never make a show of it. So which of us is truly helpful?
Its simple for you; giving an extra hundred thousand doesnt make you poorer. My help counts more because what I send is literally taken from my own mouth. Do you know how I earn my money? Every morning I hop on two doubledeckers to get to work and scrape together pennies!
A few people in the room glanced at us, some nodding in Poppys direction, the rest staying silent.
When the evening wound down I left my gifts on the table, and asked the waiter to slip an envelope to Poppy. Walking out, I thought about how we all had the same starting line, the same talent in the classroom. I chose to study instead of spending evenings drinking beer in the back garden, or smoking behind the corner shop, or partying in nightclubsthough I did attend a few. I pursued a university I was passionate about, not the local technical college. I took risks, stepped out of my comfort zone, and built a business.
Ive fought, made mistakes, and suffered losses, but Ive also learned a great deal. It isnt fair for them to condemn me for my success, to accuse me of stealing what they never earned. I made my money honestly.
How many of you know people like Poppy and the other old classmates who keep tallying other peoples cash? Some were lucky enough to be born into affluent families and receive a good education, but there are countless stories of folks from modest backgrounds, children of uneducated parents, who clawed their way to success. Everything rests in our own hands, and we each choose our path.
