**Diary Entry – 15th of June, 2023**
*Mum, why did you leave me here with him? You knew how awful it would be…*
Emily traced her fingers over the cold headstone, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her stepfather, Gregory, had gone into town to sell milk, eggs, and whatever else their farm had yielded that week. And it yielded plenty. The whole village whispered that it was the farm that had killed her mother, Beatrice—once the prettiest girl in Lancashire.
Beatrice had been in love once, with a handsome, kind-hearted lad named Thomas. They were to marry, but fate had other plans—Thomas vanished on a hunting trip in the Yorkshire Dales. When spring came, they found only scraps of him. Beatrice bore his child, but the village turned its back on her. Her own father cast her out, and she wandered with baby Emily until Gregory took them in—gave them a roof, his name.
People said Gregory had been sweet on Beatrice for years, but she’d always refused him. Now, desperate, she had no choice. Some called him a saint; others knew better.
He was greedy. He saw a young, strong woman who could work his land. Emily remembered her mother stumbling home exhausted, her hands rough and calloused from dawn till dusk. By then, they had three dairy cows, two sows, sheep, chickens, and a sprawling vegetable patch.
Then Beatrice fell ill. Emily, just ten, clung to her hand as her mother whispered, *»The moment you turn sixteen, run. Run to Manchester—someone will help you.»*
*»But what about you?»* Emily sobbed. She wanted them both to escape. But Beatrice only smiled weakly and said no more.
**—**
After the funeral, Emily lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t allowed to grieve long. Gregory stormed in.
*»Lazing about, are we? The chickens aren’t fed, the cows aren’t milked! Think you’re too good for work, eh? Well, listen here—you’ll eat when you’ve earned your keep!»*
Emily dragged herself outside. She returned well past midnight, only to be woken at dawn.
*»Up, lazy thing! Your mum’s gone, so her work’s yours now. Quick bite, then weed the potatoes. I’m off to town—got crates of eggs and a few plucked hens to sell. When I’m back, I want that field cleared!»*
Emily glared as he drove off in his battered Land Rover. She sipped weak tea, then trudged to the field. The village was barely stirring when she’d already cleared three rows.
*»Emily?»*
She straightened. Mrs. Harris, their neighbour, stood by the fence, pity in her eyes.
*»Love, why are you out so early? Did that wretch Gregory force you?»*
*»He… said to finish before he’s back.»*
Mrs. Harris scowled, then bellowed, *»Rob! Sarah! Out here, now!»* Her two children hurried over. *»Help the lass—just for a couple of hours.»*
By noon, the field was nearly done. *»Come eat with us,»* Mrs. Harris insisted. *»That miser’s probably starving you. Then I’ll help tidy up—I remember how that cow, Daisy, only let your mum near her.»*
When Gregory returned, everything was done. Emily sat on the bench, exhausted. He inspected the fields, the barn, then sneered. *»Not enough work for you? Tomorrow, muck out the cowshed.»*
That evening, Mrs. Harris found Emily barely able to walk. *»That monster’s working you to death!»*
Gregory appeared, smirking. *»Mind your own, Margaret. I gave the girl a home! Kept her from turning out like her mum—»*
Emily lunged at him. *»Don’t you dare!»*
He backhanded her. *»Try that again, and it’s bread and water for a week!»*
Mrs. Harris shoved between them. *»You vile rat! I’ll call social services!»*
*»Go ahead,»* he jeered. *»And I’ll tell the council how you lot nick hay from the county fields!»*
*»Rot in hell, Gregory!»*
**—**
Years passed. Emily grew thin as a reed, her schoolwork suffering—she studied only after chores, late into the night.
At fifteen, their village farm was bought out by a wealthy entrepreneur, Mr. Edward Hartley. His new farm boasted imported cattle—tall, red-coated things Gregory coveted. He’d stand by their pen, teeth grinding with envy.
One day, he approached Hartley. *»How much for one?»* The price made him choke. Then an idea struck—he’d heard Hartley was rich, bored, unmarried.
The next morning, Gregory marched into Hartley’s office.
*»Let me be blunt,»* he said. *»I’ll trade you Emily’s… innocence… for one of those cows.»*
Hartley’s lip curled. *»You’re offering me a child?»*
*»She’s fifteen—healthy, pretty. What’s the harm? She’ll lose it to some lad soon enough.»*
Hartley nearly struck him. Instead, he said coldly, *»Leave. I’ll think on it.»*
That evening, men arrived. Emily heard murmurs, saw Gregory sign papers. Then he called her in, smiling eerily.
*»Fancy some tea, love? There’s cake in the fridge.»*
Her stomach knotted. This wasn’t kindness—it was a trap.
After tea, he dropped the act. *»You’re staying at Hartley’s tonight. He’s paying well for you.»*
Emily went white. *»No! I won’t—»*
*»You will! I’ve wasted years on you! Your mum tricked me—left you as my burden. Now pack your things!»*
Trembling, she realised—she’d never return. If forced, she’d throw herself into the River Ribble first.
An hour later, a sleek car pulled up. Gregory practically shoved her inside. As it drove off, he stroked his new prize—a red heifer, gleaming in the dusk.
**—**
Two weeks later, the village erupted. A crowd stormed Gregory’s farm.
*»Where’s Emily? What’ve you done?»*
*»None of your business!»* Gregory barked.
Then Mr. Harris—a hulking ex-soldier—stepped forward. *»Answer them, Greg. Unless you fancy explaining yourself the hard way.»*
Gregory paled. *»She ran off with Hartley! Not my fault!»*
*»Ran off?»* Mrs. Harris spat. *»Then why’s that red cow here? A ‘gift,’ was it?»*
The crowd seethed. Just then, Hartley’s Range Rover appeared.
Hartley stepped out, followed by a well-dressed woman—his wife, Claire—and Emily, now clean, neatly dressed, clinging to Claire’s arm.
*»Any questions?»* Hartley asked coolly.
*»You bought a child!»* someone shouted.
*»I did,»* Hartley admitted. The crowd faltered.
Emily burst out, *»He saved me! Claire’s been like a mother! They’re adopting me!»*
Hartley’s voice cut through the murmurs. *»Where were you all when Gregory abused her? When her mother suffered? Only care now there’s drama?»*
Mr. Harris hung his head. *»You’re right. We’re ashamed.»*
Gregory shrieked, *»No! We had a deal! Who’ll work my farm?»*
Mrs. Harris snatched a nearby bucket and clobbered him. He crumpled, groaning.
Hartley turned to the crowd. *»Social services and the police are on their way. Pray they’re merciful, Gregory.»*
As Emily climbed into the car, she didn’t look back.