**From the Diary of Edward Whitmore**
Gloria stopped me as I stepped into the garden, her face pale. “Mr. Whitmore, there was a strange man bothering little Emily on the playground just now.”
“Bothering her? Gloria, what do you mean? Where is he?” I barely kept the panic from my voice.
“He ran off the moment I approached him,” she said, flustered. “I’ve never seen him before.”
Unease settled in my chest. “Emily!” I called sharply.
My five-year-old skipped over, her wild blond plaits bouncing. “Daddy! I saw puppies!”
I studied her face. She was grinning, unharmed—but still, my heart wouldn’t calm. “Where did you see them, darling? Who showed you?”
She blinked. “No one showed me! There were three—two black ones and one with spots. Come, I’ll show you!”
I gripped her hand. “Emily, did a man talk to you? What did he say?”
Her eyes widened. “Daddy, why’s your lip shaking? No one bothered me! A nice man just asked if I knew Mr. Edward Whitmore.”
My stomach dropped. Who would ask for me by name? Before I could press further, my mobile buzzed—Margaret, my wife.
“Yes, love?”
Margaret’s voice soothed me, but the stranger’s presence gnawed at my thoughts. I said nothing to her, nor allowed Emily to mention it. Best not to worry her over nothing.
But sleep didn’t come that night. By morning, my head throbbed. I abandoned plans for chores.
“Let’s dine out,” Margaret suggested.
I agreed. My second marriage was nothing like the first. With Margaret, I felt safe.
As we stepped out, I noticed a shadow by the neighbour’s door—tall, familiar. My pulse stuttered.
“Edward, love, come on,” Margaret urged from the car.
I forced myself inside but couldn’t shake the dread.
At the restaurant, I barely touched my food. When Margaret stepped away to take a call, Emily leaned in. “Daddy, I saw that nice man again—by our house.”
My breath caught. The one who had erased himself from my life a decade ago.
“Just now?” I asked numbly.
She nodded. “When we left. He was watching us.”
Later, as we walked out, Margaret squeezed my hand. “Edward, what’s wrong?”
I hesitated—then confessed. “Margaret… Daniel’s back.”
She froze. “Your son?”
“Mummy, who’s Daniel?” Emily chirped.
“An old friend,” I lied, meeting Margaret’s worried gaze. “He was outside our house. It’s him.”
She said nothing as we drove home. As we neared the flat, I spotted him—waiting.
“You’re right,” Margaret whispered. “It’s Daniel.”
“May I speak to him?”
She pressed my hand. “He’s your son. Of course.”
I stepped out as Margaret drove off with Emily.
The man before me was barely recognisable—older, harder.
“Hello,” I said stiffly.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Daniel replied, voice like ice. “Found out you married Margaret. Had another child.”
His tone twisted my insides. “Why now?”
“Did you think I’d stay gone?” His laugh was bitter. “After you destroyed our family?”
Pain flared. The last time we spoke, he’d been twenty—furious, blaming me for leaving his mother, for his grandfather’s stroke, for the life he lost.
“I never cheated,” I said. “Your mother’s drinking, the violence—you never let me explain.”
His sneer mirrored hers. “I need money.”
Disgust hollowed me. “Ten years without a word, and this is why you return?”
“It’s your fault,” he spat. “If you hadn’t left, she wouldn’t have—”
“Enough.” I cut him off. “For you, I died years ago. Leave, Daniel. Stay gone.”
His glare burned with her same hatred. “I wish it had been you instead of her.”
A chill ran through me, but I nodded. “But it wasn’t. And you can’t rewrite the past.”
As he walked away, I felt nothing.
Perhaps the father in me had truly died long ago.
**Lesson learnt:** Some wounds never heal, and sometimes, walking away is the only mercy left.
