The old man sank heavily onto the cold bench in the square near the abandoned club. His trembling hands clutched tattered gloves, and his eyes darted over the faces of passersby, searching for someone. A petite elderly woman with neatly tied grey hair and a shoulder bag walked past. When he saw her, the old man stiffened and called softly:
“Mary… Mary Whitmore… Wait.”
She paused, squinted, and after recognising the familiar features of what was once a tall, confident man beneath the wrinkles, pressed her lips together.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. How did you find me, Dawson?”
“I… I wanted to speak. To ask forgiveness. To explain.”
“Explain?” Mary’s voice wavered. “After forty years? Did you think my memory was short? That I’d forgotten?”
“I just want you… want her… to hear me. Even if she never forgives. I understand. But… before I die, I’d like to see my daughter just once. So she knows she had a father. That I exist.”
Mary fell silent. Then, clenching her fists, she whispered:
“I never once told her who her father was. To her, you’re nobody at all. But just know—her reaction could be anything.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow. If she comes… I’ll wait.”
Once, James Dawson had been the dashing heartthrob of their factory town near Manchester. Tall, with bright eyes and a roguish grin, he courted young Mary with flair—waiting by the gate with flowers, spinning tales of “weavers swooning over him” to stir a little jealousy. She hesitated at first but gave in—and loved him.
Then, in an instant, it shattered. James vanished. Months later, Mary heard—he’d married. The daughter of a local pub owner. Wealthy, with a flat from her father, a secure future. Convenient. Mary was left alone—and soon realised she was carrying his child.
She told no one. She bore a daughter—Emma—and carried on. The father never appeared, never asked. She bore motherhood with quiet pride, never pleading, never humiliating herself, just enduring.
For James, life fared worse. His wife was barren. Unwell. Their home filled with heavy silence. He wandered streets, searching children’s faces for traces of himself. When an old acquaintance slipped the truth, James knew—Emma was his.
Years passed. Emma grew, married, had a daughter. The father wasn’t invited to the wedding. He tried anger, blame—but in the end, he was left alone, his own executioner.
The next day, Mary arrived—not alone. A composed woman in her thirties walked beside her, back straight, poised. It was Emma.
James leapt up as though ten years younger, eyes shining. He stepped forward, hesitant.
“Emma… I’m… your father. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve to stand near you, but… thank you for coming.”
Emma said nothing. Studied him. No hatred in her gaze—just weariness, caution. They walked to her home.
The flat was warm, bright. Photos lined the walls, the scent of apple pie in the air. James perched on the edge of a chair, sipping tea, babbling to mask discomfort. Emma watched him like a shadow she’d always known.
“If you ever need anything… help, medicine,” she said suddenly, “just ask.”
“No… thank you,” he glanced away. “I never once helped in all these years. Not even a shilling.”
A little girl appeared—his granddaughter. Emma introduced them:
“This is your granddaughter. Grandad James.”
The child murmured something, then ran to her grandmother, and they left for a walk. Alone again, James spoke.
“I… want to leave you my cottage. It’s small, but solid.”
“Thank you, but we don’t need it. We’re fine here,” Emma replied gently. “No offence, but it’s unnecessary.”
James understood. He stood, thanked her for the tea, asked for a photo of his granddaughter. Then he left. Emma’s husband offered to drive him back to the village. The whole way, James sat silent, clutching the photograph. And wept.
When he reached his little cottage near Blackmoor, he turned the photo over and saw the inscription:
“To Dad. Love, Emma.”
Only then did he realise—perhaps forgiveness had already begun. But time, now, was the one thing he had little of.
