Sasha + Yasha = Love *
Dear Diary,
I opened the door this morning and found my daughter, Harriet, on the landing, her blue eyes almost bugging out of her head. She nodded frantically and began doing the oddest, most dramatic dancessomething between an impromptu warning signal and a pantomime act at the village fête. She might as well have written “Mum, be ready!” across her forehead. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. But honestly, Harriets antics could crack up a statue. I ended up coughing politely to disguise my mirth.
Our guest, entirely oblivious, stepped inside and shrugged off an absolutely enormous army rucksack. It was less a bag and more a semi-detached house on his backeverything a young soldier could possibly need, right down to soap, flannels, and a full kit of personal bits and bobs, jammed into that hulking black-and-red sack.
The boy himself, Jack, was strikingly handsometall, broad shouldered, with the sort of strong neck that reminds you of illustrations from Arthurian legends. Honestly, he looked as though he couldve wrestled a bear for King and Country.
Harriet met him on a course a few weeks backsome leadership do, I think. Within fourteen days, it was clear as daylight: inseparable. Head over heels. Proper love, the sort books are written about. Clearly, this would last foreverwell, thats what Harri insisted, and when shes sure, shes sure.
Jack didnt have any family here. Hed come over from the Yorkshire Dales at sixteen, as part of some outreach scheme after losing his grandfatherit was the two of them against the world, ever since Jacks parents faded into the background when he was small. His granddad taught him to fish, camp, repair a puncture, even how to do proper press-ups before breakfastthose two lived out in the wilds, teaching each other resilience by the fireside. When his granddad grew ill, he scraped together all he could to make sure Jack would have a futuregot the papers in order, put the cottage in Jacks name, signed him up for school, and then quietly passed away.
If you think Jack was lonely, youd be wrong. Hed gathered a sort of patchwork family around himmates from cadets, supervisors from his part-time café job, the various families who took him in for Sunday lunch when he wasnt at his boarding house. Jack counted his lucky stars every nightthankful for every kindness. And when he finally met Harriet, I swear he lit up like a brass lantern. My late father would have called it shining brighter than a new penny.
Jack won me over instantly, too. That rare honesty in his gaze: unwavering, direct, but gentle. When he smiledwhich he did oftenyou just had to smile back. If he were an actor, Hollywood would have snapped him up decades ago.
He apologised for barging in, still wrestling that monstrous rucksack, and sheepishly offered a tiny cake from the bakeryWouldnt want to arrive empty-handed, Mrs Fletcher. What a gem. That daughter of mine could find gold in a sandpit.
I hustled everyone off to wash their hands, darted into the kitchen to toss the salad. Since Harriet had rung me before sunrise to say guests were coming, Id started preparations early. When the clock struck one, two mud-caked, army-uniformed teenagersHarriet and Jackarrived in all their scruffy glory. Time to meet the family.
Lunch was a hearty affair: a bowl of fluffy quinoa, a pot of fragrant chicken stew with vegetables, a pan of proper bolognese sauce, and a tray of roast cod. It lasted barely twenty minutes before the two of them, looking like starved ducklings, peered up at me, asking, Is there any more?
Like the seasoned multitasker I am, I materialised a hidden tray of crispy chicken wings from the oven. We chatted and laughed our way through the meal. Harriet watched as Jack charmed me; I could see the hope in her eyes for my approval, which I gave freely.
I also noticed the hypnotised way Jack looked at my daughterhe was, without question, besotted. It set my motherly heart fluttering in a way I hadnt felt since, well, ever. Not every bloke treats your daughter like shes the last rose of summerand brings baked goods to boot.
Later, as Jack and Harriet dozed off mid-afternoon (fresh from a showerI could hear them giggling), I retreated to my room. Sometimes, its best to remove oneself rather than risk embarrassing everyoneespecially when you realise your kids have turned the bathroom into a spa.
That evening, Nan rang up. The Queen Mother wed always called hermy mum, Harriet’s grandmother. A few years back, the Queen Mother had her own whirlwind adventure: met an Argentinian gent at the butchers, helped him hunt down a decent ribeye at the local market, andbefore we knew itshed lost a dress size and followed him to Buenos Aires. She now governs us from across the ocean, calling with both advice and gossip.
When she asked how things were, I wanted to spill the emotional chaos of our lives, but I had no faith in Argentinian emergency services should my excitement set off her heart. So, I gave a crisp, edited summary: Harriet has a boyfriend. Polite lad. Thats all. No mention of shared showers or that these two had barely left the bed all day. The Queen Mother was content with my version of events.
I couldnt hide forever, so I slipped back into the living room. Peeking into Harriets room, I saw the sight that broke my heart: my daughter, hair like rays of sunshine, asleep on the bed; strong, suntanned Jack curled around her, his watch leaving a pale band on his arm, both smiling as they slept. Tears sprang to my eyesI was so fiercely happy for them. If ever there was a time I missed my old vices, it was thena cigarette wouldve calmed my racing thoughts, but those days were long gone.
The two of them were wonderful together: picnics in the countryside, trips to the cinema, supporting each other through cadet training, always coming home and cheerfully helping me tidy up. I did my best not to crowd them. They gave so much to their trainingI only wished I could make their homecomings last longer, so I cooked them feasts and laundered endless heaps of uniform, folding everything into two tidy piles, waiting for them to return. In between looking after patients at the hospital, I made sure to remember not just Harriets timetables but also Jackschecking on how they did in exams, encouraging and praising them both, mother to two instead of one.
Jack was a thoughtful soulfixed anything broken, always the first to clear the table without being asked. Occasionally stern, always serious about work, never wasting words, and completely reliable. He was impossibly careful with money, but whenever he took Harriet out, he insisted on paying. My dad would have burst with pride.
One Thursday evening, I was dusted in flour, prepping supper for their weekend visit, when there was a knock at the door. I charged over, hair awry, laughter on my lips, and then froze.
Two officers in uniform stood in the hall.
In England, just like anywhere, every mother fears what that means.
Panic exploded inside my chest. I couldnt breathehands scrabbling at my throat, legs crumpling under me as the world cracked around the edges.
And then…
Jack. Theyd come to tell us that Private Jack Green had died bravely in action.
I collapsed onto the floor.
ButHarriet was alive! Oh, thank heavens, it wasn’t her! My daughter was safe!
But how could this have happened? Sweet, bright Jack, gone? The noise in my head was deafening, grief dull and overwhelming. A strange relief mixed with horror. How could I feel glad it wasnt Harriet, when it meant losing Jack? How could I breathe again, knowing someone else’s world had broken?
A shell had exploded…
Harriet lay in darkness for days. She didnt eat, didnt wash, didnt speak. I think I would have joined her if my own mother hadnt flown in from Buenos Aires. Dont you dare, she commanded. That child needs you. Get up. Now. Do something.
The counsellor who stopped by to help was, honestly, no useHarriet didnt hear a word. I tried lying beside her, stroking her hair, but it was like reaching for someone under ice. No response. No tears.
A few days laterwho knows how manyMum returned with printed photos of Jack, blown up at the supermarket. She placed them all around Harriets room. Let him look after you now, she said.
Harriet snapped. She screamed, sobbed, smashed the pictures, tore her hair, broke mugs. She howled through her grief.
Thank God for it. At least, it was something. My mother left to have a smoke on the balcony. I stayed behind to gather the pieces of my devastated girl.
We started meeting with other families who lost loved ones. I convinced Harriet there were others who needed help more than we did. We had strength, I told her, the three of usa fierce, burning strength. Mum sipped her way through endless bottles of Rescue Remedy; I nervously munched antidepressants when no one was looking. Harriet wouldnt touch the stuff. She was determined to battle her pain on her own.
And she managed, somehow, to finish her service. She worked in support services, spent her evenings volunteering at the childrens hospice, helped teenagers in trouble on weekends. I overloaded her, and myself, with caring for others until, every night, we collapsed, worn out. But that big, awful, roaring guilt crept through my lifeI hadnt forgiven myself for that split-second of relief, the moment I realised the officers werent here for my child.
The shame was suffocating. I couldnt eat, couldnt sleep, felt raw and exposed. How could I feel such a thing?
And then, I dreamed of Jack.
He was fresh, clean, in a white t-shirt, walking toward me, beaming. He hugged me, held my head in his hands, looked right into my eyes. He told me he was gladso gladthat Harriet was alive and well. That she should live to one hundred and twenty, and hed have given anything for that. He furrowed his brow and asked only that we be happy. That we love life. That we look after each other for him. Thats all that truly mattered. He loved us. Simple as that.
I woke soaked in tears, hands trembling, and I swear I could smell Jacks aftershavethe one Harriet and I picked out for his birthday.
I brewed coffee, sobbing. Frightened, Harriet burst into the kitchenMum, whats wrong?! I poured it out between snifflesthe dream, the smell, everything. She sniffed my fingers dutifully, held me tight, sobbed with me, sobs that sounded just like when she was little. But, for the first time in months, the air warmed, the house breathed, and our hearts began to beat in time again.
Our lovely, brave, beloved Jack. We became his familyfamily is sacred. And now, he watches over us, protects us. Always. Even now, and always will.
