NOTHING TO RECLAIM

Dear Diary,

I own a chain of jewellery shops right here in London. My father helped get the business off the ground, and now, at forty, I finally stand on my own two feet as a respectable businesswoman. I attend society galas, find my face on glossy magazine covers, and move in circles that include actors, singers and solicitors. Ive raised my son Marcus, and on the surface everything seems neatly in place. Yet theres one thing that still slips through my fingerslove. In my spacious fiveroom flat I often feel an aching loneliness, and I cant help wondering how different life might have been.

As a child I grew up in the provincial town of York with my grandmother, Martha. When I was barely seven my parents moved to London for contract work, leaving me in Marthas capable hands. She adored me, giving her whole heart to my upbringing. When I reached my teens I fell for a classmate, George. He felt the same, and at sixteen we were convinced wed never be apart. Martha, who had raised five children of her own, simply waved it off: Everyone does foolish things at sixteen; a young mind roams like a summer ale and eventually settles. Still, George and I drifted deeper into each other, oblivious to the world beyond our schoolyard.

After finishing school we both went to university. Early in our first term I told George, Get ready to be a father. He grinned and replied, Always ready! But within a month I collected my papers and returned to London to live with my parents. George was left bewildered; he ran to Martha for answers. What will you feed a child with, love? Love isnt a toy, she scolded him. He wrote me a frantic letter, and I told him simply, Come. He raced to London, where my mother, Ann Whitaker, opened the door.

Good afternoon, Im George. Ive come to see Emily, I heard him say. Ann welcomed him politely, led him to the kitchen, and I realized I wasnt home. Ann then turned to him, eyes firm, and said, George, I have one requestleave our family alone. Forget Emily. When I asked, May I wait for her? she answered, No, shes at a spa retreat and will be back in two weeks. You have done all you could; we will manage ourselves. The conversation ended with a decisive period, and I felt like a nail driven homeno more room for him.

George left, sat on the steps outside, then caught a train to the station. His name would stay a saintly memory for years; its Latin root means star. If Emily never became a guiding star, she would at least be a beacon he chased in his mind.

Back in my flat I buried myself in my studies, unsure what to do. Should I storm my way back into his life? Forget everything? How could one erase a first love? Years later, when I gave birth to Marcus, George tried again to speak politely to Ann, bearing gifts for the newborn. As the saying goes, You cant skimp on butter when making porridge. Yet Ann cooled his enthusiasm, standing firm.

Young man, do you not see? We do not need your presents. We will raise Marcus without you. My husband and I cannot let our daughter survive on cheap substitutes. Attend to your own life, she told him. Dejected, George returned home, while his friend fanned the flames with a warning: Beware of a rich fatherinlaw, as dangerous as a devils horn. George would suffer, loving me forever, while I never responded. You cant catch a sunbeam in a sack; time slips away.

Then Megan entered my life, loving George earnestly. They married and were blessed with a daughter, Lucy. In the early years of their marriage George simply accepted Megans love. Before their wedding he confessed, I once dreamed of another. Megan replied sharply, Your words are cruel, love. They scorch my soul. But I will survive and try to win you back. My love is enough for both of us.

George later became mayor of his own little town. I still lived in his heart, and over the years our connection healed. He visited London, met the grownup Marcus, and I eventually married. My husband got along famously with Ann, whom I had chosen for my daughter.

Five years later, after living with my husband in London, I chose solitude again and returned to York. When Marcus turned fourteen, teenage troubles erupted. George, my son is out of control! Come! Help! I shouted over the phone. He dropped everything and rushed to London to rescue the boy I loved. Meanwhile Megan, seeing her husband depart, sat by the window and wept. After many years of marriage she had grown accustomed to my latenight calls. George would spring from bed, disappear to the bathroom, whisper something intimate to me. Megan was left playing the second role in her husbands life, never knowing if he truly appreciated her generosity. There was no window in her heart to look through; confusion often settled there.

When George returned from the capital, Megan felt a womans happiness. Her soul sang because he was still with her. In those moments she felt on a pedestal of bliss and strove to be the perfect wife, eager to unlock a golden key and buy back love. She would often wipe away undeserved tears, stay silent when George brought home a huge plush beara gift for Marcus. Yet she was comforted by the fact that George adored their daughter Lucy, which eased her inner turmoil.

She always remembered her grandmothers words: A wife is a plaster for a husband; a husband is a shepherd for a wife.

Spring arrived, and once again George prepared to travel to Londonfor Marcuss wedding. He bought a gift for the couple: a twoperson trip to Greece. In the midst of the wedding revelry, I leaned toward George and whispered, Shall we start anew? He exhaled lightly and answered, as if cutting a rope, No, Emily. Its too late. I will marry my Megan. I could never find a better wife.

So here I sit, pen in hand, wondering how many more chapters will be written in this tangled book of lives, loves, and lost chances.