**Diary Entry**
*17th March, London*
“Left her daughter with me?” A terrible thought sent chills down Vincent’s spine. “No, it can’t be. She’ll come back. She has to.”
Vincent returned from work to find a short note on the table from his daughter, Emily. Their relationship had always been rocky, but he never imagined she’d just run off like this. He read the note over and over, memorising every word, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling he’d missed something—misunderstood something vital.
Sleep wouldn’t come that night. The pillow felt too stiff, the duvet too heavy, the air stifling. One moment he was crying; the next, he argued endlessly with Emily in his head, replaying their fights, their rare happy moments…
Exhausted, he finally got up, switched on the desk lamp, and sat down. The note lay crumpled atop his work papers, worn from being read so many times.
He scanned it again. No, he hadn’t misread it. He could almost hear Emily’s sharp, accusing tone:
*”I can’t take your suffocating rules anymore… You’re too strict… I need to live my own life. I’m an adult… You’d never let me go, so I’m leaving while you’re out. Don’t look for me. I’m not coming back…”*
No greeting, no signature. Just cold finality.
“What about me?” Vincent muttered, as if she could hear. “What if something happens to me? You don’t even have a way to reach you. Don’t you care?”
Maybe Emily had a point. But as a father, he only wanted her to finish university, get a proper job—not throw it all away for some reckless fling. Were there really parents who let their children do whatever they wanted?
Vincent had married young, still a student himself. He remembered how quickly love burned out under the strain of poverty, cramped dorm rooms, and exhaustion. Then Emily came along, and things got worse. He and his wife—just as young and unprepared—argued constantly. Maybe his mother had been right. Maybe they should’ve waited. But he’d believed love would conquer everything. Stupid boy.
They divorced within three months. Vincent took a leave from university and moved back in with his parents. Oddly, his mother adored Emily despite having pushed for termination. She even helped him finish his degree while spoiling the girl rotten.
For years, life was secure. His parents looked after Emily while he worked—first as a schoolteacher, then a translator. But his love life never took off. His mother warned him to find someone settled, but he only met married men who wanted affairs or broke divorcees looking for a meal ticket. He didn’t dare risk it.
When his parents passed, it was just him and Emily. She was all he had. He gave her everything. And now? She didn’t want any of it. Spoilt by her grandmother, she saw him as a tyrant. She craved freedom, not education. And today, she walked out.
“I’ll wait. What else can I do? You’ll come back eventually. You’re my daughter. I’ll always forgive you. Just… stay safe.” He sighed, turned off the lamp, and lay down. Half an hour of tossing later, he drifted into a restless sleep.
The emptiness gnawed at him. He jumped at every phone call, every knock at the door. He took on extra translation work, drowning himself in papers late into the night. Sleep became a luxury. At least exhaustion left no room for self-pity. He convinced himself Emily was fine.
Then, after eighteen months, the doorbell rang.
Vincent rubbed his tired eyes, reluctant to stop mid-translation. When it rang again, he stood and answered.
There stood Emily—thinner, tired, hardened. His heart leapt.
“Em! Finally! I’ve missed you—” He reached for her, but her cold stare stopped him. Only then did he notice the bundle in her arms.
A baby.
“Is she… yours?” He took the child gently. “A girl?” He smiled, cradling her. “I’ll put her down. You get settled.”
He laid the sleeping baby on the sofa, admiring her tiny features. Then—the slam of the front door.
Silence.
He rushed to the hallway. Emily’s bag sat abandoned by the door. Wet footprints led outside.
“Emily!” He flung the door open, shouted down the stairwell. No reply.
He ran to the window. No car. No sign of her.
Back in the living room, the baby stirred. Vincent’s stomach twisted.
“She left her with me? No… She wouldn’t. She’ll come back. The bag—” He tore through it. Baby clothes. A bottle. Formula. A birth certificate.
*Eve Leonie Turner.*
No wedding then, if she’d given the child her own surname.
Then, tucked inside—another note.
*”Just look after her for a little while.”*
Nothing more.
Vincent’s hands shook as he prepared a bottle. His abandoned work lay forgotten.
Life changed overnight. He switched to remote work, devoting himself to Eve. Exhausting, yes—but for the first time in years, he had purpose.
By three, Eve started nursery. He told the headmistress her mother was a translator, often away.
Time passed. Eve—quiet, clever—refused to call him “Grandad.”
“Mum,” she’d say.
“No, love. Your mum’s Emily. I’m Grandad.”
She’d frown but soon settled on “Vinny.”
Emily never called. Never wrote. When school loomed, Vincent panicked. Would they question his guardianship? He confessed everything to the headmaster—an old colleague—who smoothed things over.
Vincent adored Eve. Now, he dreaded Emily’s return. He didn’t spoil her, but he gave her everything—time, love, stability. At parents’ evening, he swelled with pride at her praise.
Eve was nothing like Emily had been—studious, curious. Emily had hated reading, quit piano lessons, cared only for parties.
Then, one spring afternoon, on their way home from school—
“Vinny.”
A voice behind them.
He turned, keys slipping from his fingers.
Emily. Unrecognisable. Blonde, polished, expensive perfume.
Eve clutched his hand, wary.
“You came back,” Vincent said flatly, nudging Eve inside.
“Aren’t you happy?” Emily challenged.
“I waited years. Now? You look well—clearly life’s been kind.”
“Spain. I’m married. Did you think I’d forget about—” Her eyes flicked to Eve.
Vincent sent Eve to her room.
“I’m your mum,” Emily blurted, reaching for her. Eve shrank behind Vincent, then bolted.
“You can’t just spring this on her!”
“Always the expert,” Emily sneered.
“Is that why you left her with me?”
“I’m taking her. We’re leaving. Deal with it.”
Dinner was tense. Emily bragged about her villa, her pool.
“I lied to my husband about Eve. When he found out, he insisted we fetch her.”
“And the man you ran off with?” Vincent couldn’t resist.
“What does it matter? He left me penniless. That’s why I brought Eve to you. I knew you’d argue, so I didn’t explain. I had to rebuild my life first.”
“I was a bad father, but good enough to mind your child?”
“I’m sorry. I was unfair. You did your best. But she’s *mine*.”
“And me? Did you ever think how I’d manage? She’s *everything* to me.”
They argued bitterly, trading old wounds. But Vincent knew—for Eve’s sake—he had to bend.
As the departure neared, Eve asked, “Is Vinny coming?”
“No. You can visit when you’re older.”
“Then I’m not going.”
Even Vincent couldn’t persuade her. He’d hoped Emily would invite him along. He’d have gone in a heartbeat.
She didn’t.
Emily left alone after a screaming match, swearing she’d sue for custody.
Eight years later, she returned—widowed, cheated out of inheritance, broke.
Eve, older now, was warmer towards her. They lived together briefly until Emily remarried and moved out. Eve stayed with Vincent.
Families are complicated. When parents and children clash, everyone suffers.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t about control. Sometimes, holding on too tight is what pushes them away.
