**Monday, 12th March**
*”Leave me alone! I never promised to marry you! And frankly, I don’t even know whose child that is. Maybe it isn’t mine at all? So go on, waltz away, and I’ll be off.”*
That’s what Victor, the man from out of town, spat at poor Valerie. She stood there, frozen—couldn’t believe her eyes or ears. Was this the same Victor who’d whispered sweet nothings, carried her like she was precious? The same man who called her Val and swore he’d move heaven and earth for her? Now, before her stood a stranger, flustered and cross.
Val cried for a week, waved goodbye to Vic for good, but at thirty-five—plain as she was, with little hope left—she decided to keep the baby.
She gave birth right on time to a loud little girl. Named her Molly. The child grew quiet, never a fuss—as though she knew crying wouldn’t change a thing. Val wasn’t cruel—she fed Molly, clothed her, bought her toys—but hugs? Walks? No. That wasn’t her way. Little Molly reached for her often, but Val always brushed her off—too busy, too tired, too *something*. The mothering instinct just never kicked in.
Then, when Molly was seven, the unthinkable happened: Val met a man. Not only met him, but *brought him home*! The whole village gossiped—reckless Val, bringing in some stranger! No proper job, no fixed address—could be a conman, they whispered. Val worked at the local co-op; he’d been hired to unload lorries. Romance bloomed over crates and deliveries. Soon, he moved in.
The neighbours tutted. *Thinking of her girl at all?* And he was so quiet—must be hiding something! But Val wouldn’t listen. Maybe she sensed this was her last chance at happiness.
Then, slowly, opinions shifted. Val’s house had been crumbling—but Harry (that was his name) fixed the porch, patched the roof, righted the sagging fence. Daily, the place improved. Seeing his skill, folks asked for help.
*”If you’re old or skint, I’ll do it free. Otherwise, pay me—cash or goods.”*
Some paid in pounds, others with preserves, eggs, milk. Val had a garden but no livestock—until now. Suddenly, the fridge held cream, fresh milk, butter. Harry’s hands were golden—jack of all trades. And Val, never a beauty, *glowed*. Softened. Even smiled at Molly once—turns out she had dimples.
Molly grew—went to school. One afternoon, perched on the porch, she watched Harry work—his hands sure, everything falling into place. She dashed off to a friend’s, stayed till dusk. Returning, she froze—there, swaying gently in the yard: *swings*.
*”For me? Harry—did you make these?!”*
*”Course, Moll! Try ’em out!”*
She flew back and forth, wind screaming in her ears—happiest girl alive.
Val left early, so cooking fell to Harry. His pies! His stews! *He* taught Molly to cook, to set a table. So many gifts in that quiet man.
Winter came. Harry walked her to school, carried her satchel, told stories—caring for his sick mum, selling his flat to help, then his own brother cheating him out of home. He taught her to fish—dawn trips to the river, learning patience.
Come summer, he bought her first bike.
*”She’ll kill herself,”* Val fretted.
*”No. She’ll learn to fall. And get back up.”*
That Christmas, *Skater’s Dream* ice skates waited under the tree.
*”Skates! Real ones! THANK YOU!”*
Next morning, they cleared snow off the pond. She fell, but he steadied her—until she could glide unaided.
Then, leaving, she flung her arms round him.
*”Thank you… Dad.”*
Harry wept—quick, hidden tears, freezing in the air.
Years passed. Molly left for uni. Life got hard, like it does. But Harry was there—graduation, care packages, walking her down the aisle. Waiting outside the maternity ward. Loving his grandkids fiercely.
Then, one day, he left—like we all must.
At the graveside, Molly squeezed Val’s hand, tossed earth, whispered:
*”Goodbye, Dad… Best father anyone could ask for.”*
And he stayed in her heart—not as Harry, not as stepdad, but as *Father*. Because a father isn’t always the one who made you. Sometimes, it’s the one who raised you, shared your joys and pains.
The one who stayed.
