“Daughter”
The sun hung low over the winding road as Leonard slowed his car, spotting the two young girls frantically waving their arms. He hadn’t driven through this part of the countryside in years—no reason to. The district felt like a quiet dead-end, forgotten behind the rolling hills.
“What are you doing out here?” Leonard asked, rolling down the window.
“Can you take us to Yarlington?” One of them replied, her voice bright. They couldn’t have been older than thirteen—blue jeans clinging to skinny legs, windbreakers flapping, their bright eyes wide with childish trust.
Leonard hesitated. “That’s quite a way. But fine, I’m headed that direction.”
As soon as the girls clambered in, he began lecturing. “You’re too young to be hitchhiking. You don’t know me—what if I weren’t safe?”
“No buses run this late, mister,” the first girl, Sophie, explained. “We were in town with my aunt, but she had to work late. We hitched a ride this far—now we’re stuck.”
“You should’ve waited,” Leonard grumbled, but then he caught the gaze of the second girl—Emma. Her eyes were startlingly blue, guileless, the kind that believed every word spoken to her.
“Where are your parents?” he demanded.
“It’s our first time,” Emma said, brightening. “But you’re nice—we can tell.”
Leonard scoffed, but warmth crept into his chest. “Kids these days,” he muttered. “Still, don’t go getting into strangers’ cars.”
The village loomed ahead after a few miles. He could’ve dropped them at the roadside, but something—pride, perhaps—made him turn onto the narrow lane.
“We haven’t got much money,” Sophie fretted as he pulled up.
“Forget it,” Leonard waved her off. “Just fetch me some water. Your parents home?”
“Mum should be,” Emma said—just as the garden gate swung open.
A woman in work clothes and a sun-faded headscarf marched toward the car, her face tight with worry. “What’s this? Where’s the bus?”
Leonard leaned out. “Exactly what I said. Letting two kids hitchhike—reckless.”
“They always take the bus,” the woman began, then froze. Leonard removed his cap.
Her breath caught. “Len?” She yanked off the scarf, staring.
“…Yeah. Leonard. And you’re… Vera Hardwick.” He blinked. Time had etched lines around her eyes, but the sharpness in them was the same.
“Not a boy anymore, are you?” she said dryly, nodding at his thinning hair.
Leonard flushed. “So, she’s yours?”
“Mine,” Vera confirmed, her voice steady. “Emma, inside—lunch is on the stove.”
The girl hesitated, glancing between them before darting away.
“Mine,” Vera repeated, quieter now. “I never turned my back on her—unlike some.”
Leonard stiffened. “That’s not—”
“No? You made it clear it wasn’t your problem,” she cut in. “So we left. Made our own way.”
He swallowed hard. “Fourteen, then?”
“Fourteen.” Vera’s lips twisted. “Didn’t you see yourself in her?”
Leonard’s hands tightened on the wheel. “What do you want?”
“Nothing.” Her laugh was bitter. “Didn’t beg then, won’t now. Just thought you should know.”
He jerked the door shut, ignition roaring—but a sharp rap on the glass stopped him. Vera leaned in.
“Forgot to say thanks,” she said, voice softer. “For bringing her home. Funny, isn’t it? One meeting in a lifetime… At least her father was good for something once.”
Leonard drove in silence. The road blurred.
He thought of his life—comfortable, married to a woman with two bustling shops, stepfather to her son. No children of his own. His wife never mentioned it—too busy.
Emma’s eyes—his eyes—flashed in his mind.
Maybe he’d come back.
Then he remembered Vera’s stare. The past was dead.
His wife’s voice echoed in his head—unyielding, commanding. Fear coiled in his gut, fresh as it was fourteen years ago.
________________
“Who was that?” Michael stepped from the garden, wiping soil from his hands. His gaze fixed on the retreating car. “Emma riding with strangers now?”
“Dad, I won’t do it again,” Emma burst out. “Sophie was with me. He was kind—drove us right to the door!”
Michael exhaled, ruffling her hair. “You scared us. Your brother looks up to you—set the right example. Buses or family, understood?”
“Michael.” Vera’s voice was low. “We need to talk.”
Once inside, she didn’t mince words. “That was him. Emma’s father.”
Michael stilled. “He knows?”
“He knows now.” Vera’s hands twisted. “I’m sorry. But he had the right.”
A heavy pause. Then Michael sank onto the bench. “She’s mine. I raised her—school plays, parent meetings. And now he waltzes back?”
Vera touched his shoulder. “He’s a coward. He won’t come knocking.”
“And Emma?”
“She knows she’s adopted. But…”
Michael sighed, then nodded. “She’s ours. That’s what matters.”
The door banged open. Emma flew out, throwing her arms around them both. “Missed you!”
Michael laughed despite himself. “One afternoon?”
“Swear I did!”
He hugged her tight. “I believe you, love.”
Outside, the wind carried the scent of damp earth—fresh, alive. The past could stay buried.
