“Get away from me! I never promised to marry you! And for all I know, that child isn’t even mine. Maybe it’s someone else’s? So go waltz off on your own—I’m leaving,” snapped Victor, a travelling salesman, to a stunned Valentina. She stood frozen, unable to believe her ears or eyes. Was this the same Victor who had once declared his love, carried her in his arms, and called her his darling Val? The same man who had promised her the moon? Now, before her stood a flustered, angry stranger…
Val wept for a week before waving goodbye to Victor forever. But at thirty-five, plain-faced and with little hope of finding love again, she decided to keep the baby.
In due time, Val gave birth to a loud, squalling girl. She named her Emma. The child grew quiet, undemanding, and never caused her mother any trouble—as if she knew screaming wouldn’t change a thing. Val wasn’t unkind to her daughter, but true maternal warmth was missing. She fed her, clothed her, even bought toys. But an extra hug, a tender word, or a walk together? No. Tiny Emma often reached for her mother, only to be brushed away—too busy, too tired, always something. The instinct never seemed to awaken…
When Emma turned seven, something extraordinary happened—Val met a man. Not just any man—she brought him home! The entire village buzzed with gossip. “That Val, what a flighty woman!” they muttered. “He’s not serious, not from here, no steady job—lives who knows where! Probably a conman!” Val worked at the village shop, and he’d taken odd jobs unloading delivery trucks. That’s where their romance sparked. Soon, she invited him to move in. Neighbors clucked disapprovingly—bringing a stranger home! What about the little girl? And he barely spoke—must be hiding something. But Val didn’t care. This might be her last chance for happiness…
Then, opinions shifted. Val’s house, long neglected without a man’s touch, needed repairs—and Ian (that was his name) set to work. First, he fixed the porch, then patched the roof, straightened the sagging fence. Every day, the house improved under his hands. Seeing his skill, villagers began asking for help. His rule was simple: “If you’re old or truly poor, I’ll do it free. Otherwise, pay me—cash or goods.”
Some paid in coin, others with preserves, meat, eggs, or milk. Val had a garden but no livestock—no man to tend them. Now, their fridge held cream, fresh milk, even butter.
Ian’s hands were golden—a true jack-of-all-trades. And Val, never a beauty, blossomed beside him. She softened, glowed, even smiled more. And Emma? She noticed the dimples in her mother’s cheeks.
Emma grew, started school. One afternoon, she watched Ian work from the porch, mesmerised by how effortlessly everything unfolded in his hands. Later, she visited a friend’s house—but when she returned at dusk, she froze. In the middle of the yard stood… a swing! It swayed gently in the breeze, beckoning.
“Is this for me? Uncle Ian, did you make this?” Emma gasped.
“Course I did, love! All yours!” Ian laughed, his usual gruffness gone.
Emma climbed on, kicking higher and higher, wind whistling in her ears. No one in the world was happier.
With Val leaving early for work, Ian took over cooking—breakfasts, lunches, even pies and casseroles. He taught Emma to cook, to set a table properly. Who knew such talents lay hidden in that quiet man?
When winter came and days grew short, Ian walked her to and from school, carrying her satchel, sharing stories—caring for his dying mother, selling his flat to help her, how his own brother cheated him out of their childhood home.
He taught her to fish. At dawn, they’d sit by the river, patient and still. He bought her first bicycle, steadied her as she wobbled, dabbed her scraped knees with antiseptic.
“She’ll break her neck,” Val fretted.
“She won’t. She needs to learn to fall and get back up,” Ian said firmly.
One New Year’s Eve, under the tree, Emma found a pair of shiny new ice skates. That night, they feasted on Ian’s cooking, laughed, clinked glasses as the clock struck midnight. The next morning, Val and Ian woke to Emma’s shrieks of joy.
“Skates! Real ones! Thank you, thank you!” She clutched them, tears streaming.
At the frozen river, Ian cleared snow while Emma helped. He held her hands as she stumbled, never letting go until she found her balance. When she finally glided without falling, she flung her arms around him.
“Thank you… for everything. Thank you, Dad.”
Now it was Ian who wept, wiping his cheeks in the frosty air, tears turning to ice.
Years passed. Emma left for university, faced life’s hardships. But Ian was always there—at her graduation, hauling groceries to her flat so she’d never go hungry. He walked her down the aisle, waited outside the maternity ward with her husband, doted on his grandchildren with a love deeper than blood.
And when his time came, as it comes for all, Emma stood by his grave, heart heavy. “Goodbye, Dad,” she whispered, tossing a handful of earth. “You were the best father anyone could have. I’ll never forget you.”
In her heart, he remained—not as Uncle Ian, not as a stepfather, but as her father. For a father isn’t always the one who gives you life, but the one who shares your joys and sorrows, who stands by you… always.
Author: Solitude Behind the Screen.
