**Diary Entry**
I’ve worked at The Ivy Café for two years now. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s steady. Reliable. The hum of conversation, the clink of cutlery, the bell above the door—it all feels like home. Sundays are my favourite. The morning light spills through the curtains just so, and the regulars trickle in one by one.
There’s the elderly couple who share a scone with clotted cream, still holding hands after all these years. The lads from the Sunday footie match, always ravenous and boisterous. A young mum and her daughter, the little one carefully spreading jam on her toast with the seriousness of a judge. Even the bloke in the corner with his laptop, scribbling away like he’s penning the next great British novel. They all make the place what it is.
But one man stood out—quiet, always alone, sitting in the same booth by the window. Worn jumper, elbows threadbare. Sometimes he’d order a slice of Victoria sponge, sometimes a ham sandwich, but always tea. And every Sunday, without fail, he left me a £100 tip.
No explanation. Just a nod, a gentle smile, and the crisp note tucked beneath his saucer.
The first time, I chased him out. “Sir, you left—” He only said, “It’s for you,” and walked away.
After that, it became routine. That money kept the lights on. Paid for groceries. Even helped with my night classes in bookkeeping. But more than that, it made me feel *seen*.
“Reckon he fancies you?” my mate Lucy joked one evening over a shared plate of chips.
“Or maybe I remind him of someone,” I mused. “A daughter, perhaps?”
She grinned. “Secret millionaire dad? Only in films, love.”
But I couldn’t shake the thought. He never spoke much, just watched the world go by. Yet I noticed things—how his eyes softened at the sound of laughter, how he once quietly paid for an old man’s meal before slipping out.
Then, one Sunday, he looked different. Pale. Weary. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. When I asked if he needed anything, he glanced at my name tag. “No, thank you… Emily,” he murmured, like he was committing it to memory.
That night, I posted his photo on my socials—just a simple caption: *”This kind man leaves £100 every Sunday. Never says why. But his quiet generosity means the world.”*
Minutes later, my mum called. We hadn’t spoken properly in months.
“Emily,” she said, voice unsteady, “that man—he’s your father.”
My breath caught.
“He left when you were a baby,” she admitted. “I was angry. I erased him. But he came back months ago—ill, terminal. He only wanted to see you… from afar.”
Suddenly, the tips made sense. Not just kindness. Regret. A broken man trying to say, *I see you. I’m sorry.*
The next Sunday, I sat across from him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
His hands trembled. “I didn’t deserve to. I just… wanted to help. Be near you, even if you didn’t know.”
Anger warred with grief. “You’re my father. And you left.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
When I returned to his table, he was gone. No tip. Just a folded napkin: *Sorry.*
Two weeks later, a letter arrived—a cheque for £5,000. *”For your future. For the birthdays I missed. I hope you forgive me one day. —Dad”*
I didn’t cash it straight away. But when I enrolled in my final term, I used it for my fees.
The Ivy still bustles on Sundays. The regulars still come. But his booth sits empty now.
And when I pass it, I smile. Not for the money. But because, in his way, he found his way back.
And maybe that’s enough.
*Lesson learned: Some wounds never fully heal, but kindness—even delayed—can still leave its mark.*
