**Diary Entry**
Sometimes life throws you a curveball, and you spend the rest of your days wondering how it all came to be. I still remember that crisp October afternoon when I was walking back from the market in the next town. Back then, buses were scarce, so I had to trudge home on foot, grumbling about the uneven path and the heavy bags of potatoes weighing me down.
At forty-two, I lived aloneunless you counted Marmalade, my ginger cat, who resembled a well-fed cushion with an attitude. After my divorce, things hadnt gone wellneither with my children nor in love. I worked at the village library, knitted in the evenings, and watched tellyjust the quiet life of an ordinary woman from the countryside.
I was muttering about my aching arms when I spotted her. A small figure in a thin coat sat beneath an old oak tree, hugging her knees. At first, I thought my eyes were playing trickswhat kind of person would leave a child alone between villages in this weather?
“Sweetheart, where are your parents?” I called, stepping closer.
She lifted her headpale-faced, frightened eyes, silent. Just curled tighter into herself.
“Are you lost? Where do you live?”
Nothing. Just her lips trembling.
“Goodness, youre freezing!” I set my bags down and crouched beside her. “Im Margaret. Whats your name?”
“E-Emily,” she whispered.
“Emily, come back to mine, wont you? Ill make you some hot tea, warm you up, and well sort this out.”
She gave a timid nod, and I hoisted the bags with one hand, clasping her icy fingers with the other. So we walkedme huffing under the weight, her scurrying alongside like a little sparrow.
At home, I wrapped her in a blanket, cranked up the heater, and put the kettle on. Marmalade, usually aloof, leapt straight onto her lap and purred like a motor.
“Look at thathe likes you,” I smiled, pulling out biscuits. “And hes fussy, doesnt just warm up to anyone.”
Emily tentatively stroked the cat, and I saw her shoulders relax a fraction.
“How old are you, love?”
“Five I think.”
“Do you know your surname? Or where youre from?”
She shook her head, and my stomach twisted. Something wasnt right here.
That evening, I fed her soup and shepherds pie (thank heavens for batch cooking), tucked her into my bed, and took the sofa. I barely sleptrang the police, checked with neighbouring villages, but no one had reported a missing child.
A week passed, then another. Emily began to smile, especially when I read her bedtime stories. But she remembered nothingor chose not toabout how shed ended up on that road.
When the social worker shrugged helplessly, I knew I had to decide. A childrens home? The thought turned my stomach.
“Emily,” I said one evening as she doodled at the table, tongue poked out in concentration. “Would you like to stay with me? For good?”
She paused, gripping her crayon, then looked up.
“Can I?”
“Yes. Youd be my daughter.”
“And can Marmalade stay too?”
I laughed. “And Marmalade too.”
She scrambled off the chair and hugged me tight. As I stroked her hair, I thoughtwell manage. Somehow.
Then came the paperwork, the visits from officials, the endless checks. But thats another chapter.
Ill never forget her first day at school. Emily clung to my hand as if facing a den of lions, not a classroom. Her new gingham dress, white ribbons (which Id spent an hour tying symmetrically)everything just so.
“Mum, what if I cant do it?” she whispered as we approached the gates.
That “Mum” sent warmth flooding through me. Shed first said it a month prior, when I was bedridden with flu, and shed brought me teaspilling half of it along the way.
“Of course you can,” I knelt, adjusting her ribbon. “Youre my clever girl.”
“What if they laugh?” She stared at her shoes.
I knew what she meant. In a small village, everyone knows your business, and the tale of the “foundling” had sprouted a dozen wild rumours.
“Tell you what,” I said, pulling a kitten-patterned notebook from my bag. “Take this. Write down everything interesting you learn today. Then tell me later. Deal?”
She nodded, clutching it to her chest, and we walked on.
The first months were hard. Emily struggled with maths but thrived in artthe quiet girl transformed when holding a paintbrush.
“Mrs. Margaret, a word?” Miss Thompson, the art teacher, stopped me after parents evening.
I braced myselfteachers dont keep you back for no reason.
“Emily has real talent,” she said, opening a sketchbook. “Look.”
On the page was our street in autumnbut through her eyes. Every leaf, every rain-puddled reflection of sky
“She ought to nurture this. Theres an art college in the next town”
I sighed. Art college meant fees. On a librarians wages, we scraped by as it was.
“Ill think on it,” I said.
That evening, as Emily did homework and I peeled potatoes, came a knock. Mrs. Wilkins, our neighbour, stood there with a basket.
“Margie, take these. Apples from my treegood for the girl. And some blackberry jam.”
I blinked. “But Edna, you shouldnt”
“Go on,” she waved me off. “And I do a bit of cleaning in town. If you fancy extra work, Ill put in a word. Pays alright.”
So began my weekend shiftstwice a month, Id bus to town to clean houses. Emily stayed with Edna, who taught her to bake scones and told tales of the war.
By years end, wed saved enough for art classes. It meant two bus rides, but Emily never complained.
Trouble brewed in secondary school. Teen years are rocky enough without unanswered questions.
“Why did they leave me?” she asked over tea one night. “Was I bad?”
My heart ached.
“Emily, listen”
“No, you listen!” She jumped up, knocking her cup. “Everyone knows their parents! And Im just nobody! A stray!”
“Thats enough!”
“Truth hurts, doesnt it?” She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the clock rattled.
Marmalade, now elderly and portly, bolted under the sofa.
I didnt followpointless in that state. I mopped the spilt tea, wonderinghad I failed her? Should I have
The front door banged. Nearly ten at night.
“Emily!”
Silence.
I grabbed my coat and ran out. Drizzle fell, streetlights flickered. Where would she go?
I checked the parkempty. Dreadful images flashedstrangers, roads, rivers
I found her at the churchyard, on the bench by Ednas grave (wed lost her the past winter).
“Emily”
She looked upsoaked, shivering.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didnt mean”
I draped my coat over her and sat beside her.
“You know,” I said after a while, “when I found you, I thought youd stay awhile, then goto a home or relatives, if they turned up. But then you started drawing those rainbows on the wallpaper”
“They were proper landscapes!” she sniffed.
“Especially that purple one with three suns,” I smiled. “And I knewI couldnt let you go. Because youre mine. Not by blood, but here.” I tapped my chest. “And I dont care who your birth parents were. To me, youre my real daughter.”
She buried her face in my shoulder and wept. We sat theredamp, chilled, but somehow lighter.
“Mum,” she said as we walked home. “Can I repaint my room? Purple?”
“Lilac or lavender?”
“Dunno,” she shrugged. “Lets try both?”
That weekend, we painted. I still couldnt name the exact shade, but Emily glowed.
By fifteen, shed set her heart on art school. Her work won county competitions; one piece even made a London exhibition.
“Mum, look!” She burst in, waving a letter. “I got into a masterclass! A whole week in London!”
My stomach dropped. A week in the citylodging, meals, supplies
“Brilliant,” I forced a smile. “When?”
“Next month!” She flopped beside me. “A proper artists teaching us oils!”
That night, I counted my savingspart of her uni fund. Just enough. Wed manage.
That week changed her. She returned brighter, sur
