**Diary Entry – The Message That Changed Everything**
Hannah had gone on a business trip to Manchester, leaving her fiancé, James, behind in London. Wrapping up early, she decided to surprise him by returning home unannounced. James had never given her reason to doubt him, but as the train sped toward the city, anxious thoughts flickered through her mind—what if she found him with someone else? She dismissed the idea, yet her pulse quickened. Keeping her return a secret, she imagined his face lighting up in surprise. But the surprise would have to wait. The moment she turned on her phone at the station, a message flashed on the screen, freezing the blood in her veins.
Hannah leaned her forehead against the cold taxi window, willing away the stupid thoughts. Why was she imagining scenes from cheap telly dramas? Her life with James was steady, almost dull—maybe that’s why she was inventing drama. The cab smelled of old aftershave, reminding her of her father. The driver, a man in his sixties with silver streaks and a creased neck, yawned and rubbed his ear—just like her dad when he was tired. His driving was sharp, and Hannah gripped the door handle instinctively.
“Lass, what’s your name?” the driver asked. “Hannah,” she replied, surprised. “I’m Victor. Your train soon? Mind if we stop for petrol?” The train wasn’t for three hours, so she nodded. “Plenty of time. I like arriving early.” Victor chuckled. “Women, always the same! My missus does that—wants to leave five hours early in case of traffic!” Hannah shrugged. She *did* hate being late. “It’s Hannah Victoria, actually,” she added, eager to steer the conversation elsewhere. “No kidding? My daughter’s named Hannah too. And my mum,” Victor said, perking up.
He began telling his story, and Hannah listened, stunned. Victor grew up in a big family, started working at fourteen, never got an education, health was failing, and his flat’s mortgage barely left him breathing. His sons from his first marriage refused to speak to him, furious he’d left their mum. His only joy was his daughter, whose tuition he paid, praying she’d escape poverty. Without meaning to, Hannah imagined: what if *he* were her father? She, the daughter of a wealthy businessman, would’ve never met James—he’d asked about her parents the moment they met.
“So, did you like our city?” Victor asked as they neared the station. “Lovely,” she smiled. “Where you from?” “London.” “Blimey, that’s far! Been once, for me granddad’s funeral. Business, was it?” “Yeah,” she said. “Come back sometime! Here’s me card—old but reliable!” He handed over a crumpled card, and Hannah studied him again. His mannerisms, his voice—like a long-lost copy of her dad.
On the train, she invented stories, just like she used to as a girl. She’d dreamed of writing, but her father insisted she study economics to inherit his firm. Did she regret it? Not really. Her life was mapped out, and that was comforting. She hadn’t told James she was returning early, eager to surprise him. But everything changed when her phone buzzed to life, her mother’s message flashing: *Dad’s in hospital. Heart attack.*
Hannah had never seen her father weak. He was solid, unbreakable. Now he lay pale on a hospital bed, wires taped to his chest. Her mum stepped out to speak to the doctor, leaving them alone. “How are you?” she asked, fighting tears. “Not bad, love,” he whispered. To keep from crying, she rambled about Manchester: “Lovely city. The cabbie, believe it or not, was called Victor—” Her father cut her off. “I was born there.”
Hannah froze. He’d never spoken about his childhood. “And me name’s not Victor,” he added, the words hanging like the start of one of her made-up tales. He went on: “Kept this quiet me whole life. Only my wife knows. Not even the folks who raised me knew. I was three when it started. Born in Manchester, but me real name’s Thomas. Victor was me older brother—he raised me. Big family, Dad was always in his cups, Mum… don’t remember much. Just bread with butter and sugar.”
He told her how his mother once left him in a damp, crumbling house. His brother begged her not to, but she walked away. Terrified, little Thomas ran into a crowd of children, boarded a bus, and ended up in a village. Someone found him, asked his name. Why he said “Victor,” he didn’t know. No one looked for him, or maybe no one bothered. A kind woman took him in, feeding him fresh-baked pies. She became his mother. “I remember nothing, Hannah. Just the brother. Wish I knew what became of ’im.”
Hannah stared. Was it possible? Was Victor the brother? She remembered his face, his tales of a big family. “You never searched?” she asked. “What for? I don’t remember them. Just the name ‘Hannah’ in me head—maybe a sister, maybe Mum. That’s all. I wanted *my* grandkids to remember me. But there ain’t any. And I’d like to see you wed. Do an old man a favour—get married, eh? I know weddings ain’t the fashion, but you and James—”
Hannah sighed. She wasn’t against marriage, but James hadn’t asked. “Get better. I’ll give you your wedding,” she promised. At home, James was on his laptop, gaming. “Blimey, what a surprise! Should’ve called, I’d have met you!” he beamed. Exhausted, Hannah burst into tears. He held her as she told him about her dad—leaving out the secret. Then, suddenly: “Let’s get married.”
James pulled back, frowning. “Hannah, we’re fine as we are. Why? Is this your dad talking?” “So you *don’t* want to?” Her voice shook. She’d always suspected he wasn’t ready, but hearing it hurt. “We’ve talked about this,” he said softly. “Want kids? We’ll have ’em—no ring needed. We don’t fight.” Hannah went quiet, but resentment festered.
When her father recovered, she left for Manchester again without telling James. A note: *Need to think about us.* But her real goal was finding Victor. She’d lost his card, tearing her luggage apart. At the hotel where she’d booked the cab, the receptionist, Grace, was on holiday. Hannah begged the other girls for Grace’s number, but they refused. Tears came without warning. “Grace is back in two weeks,” they said. In her room, Hannah sobbed, feeling lost. Why was she here? James had probably moved on, and her father’s brother was gone.
James texted: *What’s this mean?* *Whatever you want,* she replied. *Where are you?* *None of your business. You’re not my husband.* Silence. Then a knock. A young receptionist whispered: “Here’s Grace’s address. Don’t tell anyone!” Hopeful, Hannah set off the next morning, cancelling three cabs, praying Victor would show. He didn’t.
In a tired part of town, a bloke in a stained vest opened the door. “Looking for Grace,” Hannah said. He eyed her. “You one of Alex’s?” “Who?” Her confusion eased his suspicion. Introducing himself as Liam, he invited her in for tea. Grace, he explained, had dated wealthy Alex, who controlled her life, then fell for broke Ian. Alex threw a fit, so Grace and Ian fled to his gran’s, lying about the holiday. “Stay clear of Alex,” Liam warned.
A girl burst in, cutting him off. “Megan, this is Grace’s mate!” Liam shouted, barely holding her back. Hannah slipped into the hall and fled, desperate to be home. The trip was a failure. No Victor, a fight with James, and her bid for excitement had backfired.
At home, James met her at the door. “No warning?” He looked tired, and Hannah wondered—had her fantasy come true? Had he been with someone? Tears threatened. “My flat, why warn you? Why aren’t you at work?” “It’s Sunday,” he said, unfazed. “Hungry? Let’s get takeaway.” Hannah realised he hadn’t left. “Pizza,” she muttered, shedding her coat.
“Where’d you go?” James asked. “Not telling.” “Fine. Check that box—was tidying, didn’t chuck your stuff.” He handed her a box. Rifling through lazily, Hannah froze. A card: *Victor Tarrant.* The cabbie’s name! “James, I’ve been searching everywhere for this!” He rolled his eyes. “Keep looking, might find summat better.” She glanced back—and stopped. A blue velvet box. Not hers.
Her heart raced. She knew what it was but couldn’t touchShe picked it up with trembling hands, and as she opened it, James dropped to one knee, grinning like he’d just pulled off the greatest surprise of all.
