I worked hard in school but had few friends. When my classmates were out playing, I was busy working on my school projects or revising. My only friends were the librarians who would guide me to the books needed to help me in my revision. They taught me to use the computers and how to research for my projects.
My parents supported me in my attempts to do well in school, but through no fault of their own, both being badly disabled, there was no money to finance extras. My uniform came from the schools’ seconds’ shop. Because of this I was the outsider. Sometimes I lay in bed dreaming that one day I would be able to afford the expensive shoes and matching bags that Margaret Ford, one of the most popular girls in my class, sported. Along with her highlighted hair and manicured nails, she had everything, beauty, brains and personality.
As the years progressed, I studied hard, working until I could no longer keep my eyes open. I researched into what career path I would follow, eventually deciding on banking. It meant long hours of study and struggle to make ends meet, not always being able to afford to eat, but I thrived in the academic environment of the university and eventually achieved my PHD.
I shall always remember the day they called my name, Dr Susan Day. My parents looked proudly on, I walked on to the stage, head held high, to be presented with my hard-earned doctorate.
I love my work in the banking world, and in time I met and fell in love with my handsome husband John. Eventually we had 3 children who never fail to bring us joy. We are able to make sure that they want for nothing and have privileged lives filled with the same love that my parents gave me.
Part of my weekly routine is the hated food shop; I have a rigorous routine, ensuring that I select the healthy options, which takes priority over cost. It is one of my few routines, the other ironing, that I find tedious. It was whilst doing my weekly shop that I saw my old classmate, the glamorous and popular Margaret Ford.
At the time I was preoccupied loading and packing my goods. I looked up at the cashier as I prepared to pay for the shop and gasped. I realised that Margaret was checkout assistant. The long blond tresses replaced by straggly, grey greasy hair, a wrinkled face, and the manicured nails now chipped and grubby. She didn’t recognise me, or at least didn’t acknowledge me. I swiftly paid and left the shop.
As I drove home, I silently thanked her for the envy I had felt for her in my youth. It was this envy that had given me the determination to aim for a good life for myself and my family.
So, thank you Margaret.
