The Daughter’s Return
“I’m leaving, Dad.” Emma’s voice trembled, but her eyes burned with determination. She stood in the doorway of their cramped kitchen, clutching her phone like a lifeline. On her denim jacket, a pin gleamed—”Dream.” “To Olivia’s place. In London. At least there’s life there.”
Thomas froze, a mug of cold tea in his hands. His daughter, his little Em, stared at him like he was a stranger. Outside, the evening hummed with car horns and the laughter of neighbourhood kids, but inside his chest, the silence was deafening—like the calm before a storm.
“Leaving?” he echoed, fighting to keep his voice steady. His grip tightened on the mug until his knuckles turned white. “You really think it’ll be better there? Without me?”
“And what’s here?” Emma scoffed, pushing dark hair from her face. “You’re stuck in the past. With Mum. With that bloody bus. I can’t do this anymore, Dad. I’m fifteen, and it’s like I’m trapped!”
She spun away, slamming her bedroom door. The sound reverberated through the flat. Thomas set the mug down, feeling his heart constrict. He knew she was right—he clung to the past like a life raft. But letting her go? That felt impossible.
—
The morning in their cluttered flat on the outskirts of Birmingham smelled of burnt toast, cheap coffee, and the faint tang of engine oil that clung to Thomas’s clothes. He woke at six, as always, to make his first shift. His old bus—a faded red double-decker nicknamed “Old Reliable” by the depot lads—waited in the yard. Driving was routine, reliable, like a steady heartbeat. It had kept him afloat after Sarah, his wife, passed five years ago.
“Em, up! You’ll be late!” he called, flipping eggs at the stove. The radio played some pop song softly. Silence answered. Lately, Emma barely spoke to him, always lost in her headphones or phone.
“Dad, I can handle it,” she mumbled, finally shuffling in. Her school blazer was rumpled, her trainers scuffed, her backpack slung over one shoulder. “Were you in the garage all night again?”
“Needed to check the engine,” he said, handing her a plate of eggs and toast. “Eat. Won’t last till lunch otherwise.”
“Not hungry.” She rolled her eyes but took a bite. She looked so much like Sarah—same dark eyes, same stubborn chin, same habit of scowling when angry. Sometimes, Thomas would look at her and see his wife laughing in their first flat, back when life was just beginning. But Sarah was gone—cancer took her fast, leaving him with ten-year-old Emma and a hole he could never fill.
“Dad, I’ll be late tonight,” she muttered, already heading out. “School project, then hanging with Sophie.”
“Fine, just call,” he said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “And don’t wander too late. Worry about you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She sighed and left, the scent of her strawberry shampoo lingering.
Thomas exhaled, drained his coffee, and headed to the depot. Old Reliable was more than just a bus to him—the smell of diesel, the creak of vinyl seats, the familiar faces of passengers who greeted him every morning. But Emma hated it. “Dad, it’s like you—old and boring,” she’d once said, and it cut deeper than he expected.
—
Thomas didn’t notice when it all started slipping. He was twenty when he first saw Sarah—standing at a bus stop in a flowy blue dress, arguing with the conductor over short change. Thomas, then a trainee, had grinned and opened the doors.
“Hop on,” he’d winked, adjusting his cap. “Just keep it down, yeah?”
“I’m not shouting,” she’d huffed, but smiled, cheeks flushing. “You always this nice?”
“Only to pretty passengers.” She’d laughed, head thrown back.
That was their beginning. Sarah taught music at a primary school, played guitar, sang everything from The Beatles to Bowie. She dreamed of travels, of the seaside, of a house with a garden where Emma would run barefoot. Thomas promised her all of it, but life had other plans. Emma was born when they were barely thirty, and Sarah glowed, humming lullabies. Then came the doctors, the diagnosis, the hospital stays. Thomas held her hand to the end, but it wasn’t enough.
“Look after Emma,” Sarah had whispered, her voice frail as autumn leaves. The ward smelled of antiseptic, rain tapping the window. “And yourself, Tom. Don’t forget to live.”
“I promise,” he’d choked out, tears burning. But he didn’t know how to live without her.
After the funeral, he buried himself in work. The bus became his refuge—no thinking, just driving, radio murmuring, pretending everything was fine. Emma grew, but with every year, a wall rose between them. She resented his silence, his refusal to let go. And he didn’t know how to explain that losing her too was his greatest fear.
—
That evening, Thomas came home early, groceries in hand—potatoes, milk, Emma’s favourite yoghurts. Her door was ajar. He went to call her for dinner but froze at her voice—sharp, angry.
“Yeah, Olivia, I mean it,” Emma snapped into the phone. “I want to come to London. Dad… he’s not *living*. He’s just *existing*. In that bus, with Mum in his head. I can’t breathe here. He doesn’t even *see* me!”
Thomas stepped back, the floor tilting beneath him. She wanted to leave? Abandon him? He stumbled to the kitchen, slumped at the table, and stared into his empty mug. Memories washed over him—Sarah and toddler Emma at the lake, laughter, promises. When had everything turned so wrong?
The next day, he made a choice. Emma mattered more than his fear, his grief, the bus. He called Mick, his mechanic mate, while peeling potatoes.
“Mick, fancy patching up Old Reliable?” he asked, voice rough. “Want to take Em… somewhere. Like we used to.”
“Blimey, getting sentimental?” Mick chuckled, tools clinking. “Give us two days. You sure? Thought she hated that rustbucket.”
“I’m sure,” Thomas said, gripping the phone. “Last ride.”
—
A week later, everything was ready. Thomas took time off—first in years—and with Mick’s help, restored the bus: new spark plugs, cleaned seats, replaced a cracked window. He hung the curtains Sarah had sewn—blue with tiny daisies—and dug out her old cassette tapes. Emma didn’t notice, too lost in her music, her phone.
On Friday, he knocked on her door. She sat on her bed, scrolling, headphones around her neck.
“Em, need to talk,” he said, leaning on the frame.
“What now?” She glared. “If it’s about grades, I *passed*.”
“Not that,” he rasped. “We’re going out tomorrow. You and me. In the bus.”
“That *wreck*?” She wrinkled her nose. “Seriously? It’s embarrassing. I’ve got plans with Sophie.”
“Won’t take long,” he forced a smile. “Promise you’ll like it. Like the old days, yeah? Remember the lake?”
She studied him, and for a second, her glare softened. She sighed, tossing her phone aside.
“Fine. But if it’s rubbish, I’m never forgiving you.”
“Fair enough,” he nodded, heart pounding.
—
Saturday dawned clear, the sky like polished glass. Thomas loaded a picnic—cheese sandwiches, Thermos of tea, Emma’s favourite chocolate digestives. She emerged in jeans, trainers, and that same denim jacket with the pin. At the sight of the bus, she groaned.
“Dad, this is your *plan*?” She folded her arms. “Are we time-travelling to the ’80s?”
“Get in,” he opened the door, ignoring her tone. “Trust me. Just once.”
She huffed but climbed aboard, slumping by the window. The engine coughed to life, and as they pulled away, Thomas pressed play on the cassette player. Sarah’s voice filled the bus—”Here Comes the Sun.” Emma stiffened, fingers tightening on her bag strap.
“That’s… Mum’s?” she whispered, staring out the window.
“Yeah,” he kept his eyes on the road, but his throat tightened. “She’d sing on drives. Made us join in. Remember?”
“…Yeah.” She turned away, but not before he saw her swipe at her eyes.
—
The drive to the lake took two hours. They passed fields, sleepy villages where washing hung on lines and apple trees bent under fruit. Thomas told stories—learning to drive, the time Sarah made him stop the bus in a field to pick daisies. Emma stayed quiet but listened, nodding sometimes.
“Dad,” she asked suddenly at a petrol station, nibblingAs the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the lake in gold, Emma rested her head on her father’s shoulder, and for the first time in years, Thomas felt the weight in his chest begin to lift.
