**Diary Entry**
I was a lazy, spoiled twenty-year-old layabout—until one encounter turned my life upside down.
When I was five or six, Mum often said, “Darling, you deserve everything you want—full stop.” At first, it was toys, then the biggest slice of cake at parties, medals in school competitions. If I didn’t get my way, I’d throw a tantrum until I did. Without realising, I grew up believing the world owed me—no, was obliged to hand me everything.
Mum did her best. To her, I was her only light, and she went out of her way to make me feel special. But that smothering love, that endless indulgence, didn’t make me a better person. Quite the opposite—I became selfish, idle, and entitled. I lived for pleasure, convinced it would always be this way. Then everything crumbled. First, I was sacked from the job Mum had pulled strings to get me. Then she died—suddenly. An illness no one caught in time. And just like that, I was alone. No money, no friends, no purpose. My old world had vanished.
That’s when I remembered—I still had a father.
He’d always been quiet, almost invisible next to Mum’s domineering presence. Never argued, never took charge. But after her death, he changed. Or maybe he just became who he truly was. He looked at me differently, like a lost child who could still be saved. Months later, he said, “Time for a fresh start. We’re moving to the countryside.” I was horrified.
“What? Me? The countryside?” I scoffed, the spoiled city boy who’d never lifted a finger.
“We’ll grow sunflowers. Raise chickens,” he said calmly.
I slammed the door. He left without me—no pleading, no guilt-trips. Smart man.
For two months, I scrambled through London, job-hunting—no luck. Fired within weeks. Money ran out, pride dissolved. Desperate, I rang him, expecting a handout. Instead, he said, “Come. See for yourself.”
No choice. Three days later, I was on a train to a village near Cambridge. In my carriage, I met a woman. Turned out, she was visiting her mum—who lived near my father. We walked together, and then I saw her: a girl, maybe twelve, digging in the garden.
“Hello! Need a spade? The soil’s perfect today—great for tomatoes,” she beamed.
It hit me like lightning. This girl—Emmeline—was everything I wasn’t. Her mother invited me in when Dad wasn’t home. Over dinner, I suddenly found myself in the garden, spade in hand, listening as Emmeline eagerly explained seedlings. And… I liked it.
Everything shifted. While Dad and her mum, Eleanor, worked the fields, I stayed with Emmeline. She taught me to muck out the shed, milk the goats, chop herbs to dry. She had energy for three people. Lost her dad at seven, battled illness—never complained. She was braver, wiser than I’d ever be.
That’s when something inside me cracked. I woke early, fed the chickens, hauled water, laughed over muddy boots. Then she fell ill—high fever, weak constitution. That night was hell. I didn’t leave her side. And that’s when I knew: I wasn’t the same man anymore.
Six months later, I barely recognised myself. The old me would’ve mocked who I’d become—thrilled by blooming flowers, proud of carrying feed buckets, actually cooking. I was alive.
Later, I returned to London. Studied education. Me—the spoiled brat who barely knew how to live—wanted to teach kids. But somehow, it worked. Now I’ve my own classroom, former students still visit just to talk. A family, too. Two children. A wife, Claire—my rock.
And Emmeline? She’s my stepsister now. Dad and Eleanor married. I’m her big brother, her fiercest ally. Every time I see her, I know—she saved me. Not Dad, not hardship, but her. That little girl with a spade.
Funny, how one meeting can change everything. And the best part? It’s never too late to start over. Even at twenty. Even when you’re nothing. You just need someone to show you how to live.
