**Diary Entry, October 12, 1985**
“Bloody hell, Andy, you’re really going to marry a shop girl with three kids? Lost your mind?” Vic shoved me playfully as he leaned against the doorframe of our shared flat, grinning like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all week.
I barely glanced up from fiddling with the alarm clock, screwdriver steady in my hand. “What’s the fuss?”
Back in the ’80s, our little corner of Birmingham moved at its own slow pace—no rush, no chaos. For me, a bloke nearly thirty with no family to speak of, life was a worn-out routine: factory shifts, chess matches at the pub, telly in the evenings, and the odd catch-up with mates. Sometimes, I’d catch sight of kids playing in the courtyard below, and for a split second, I’d remember that old dream of having my own family. Then I’d shake it off—what use were dreams in a cramped council flat?
Everything changed one damp October evening. I’d popped into the corner shop for bread, same as always, but this time, *she* was behind the counter—Natalie. Funny how I’d never really noticed her before. Tired eyes, but warm. A smile that didn’t quite reach them.
“White or brown?” she asked, already reaching for the loaf.
“White,” I mumbled, suddenly awkward, like a schoolboy caught staring.
“Fresh from the bakery,” she said, wrapping it neatly.
Our fingers brushed when she handed it over, and something sparked. I fumbled for coins while stealing glances—plain apron, hair tied back, early thirties maybe. Worn out but… alive, somehow.
Days later, I spotted her at the bus stop, lugging shopping bags with three kids in tow. The eldest, a lad about fourteen, carried a heavy crate like it was his job. A girl—maybe ten—held the little one’s hand.
“Let me help,” I said, grabbing a bag before she could refuse.
“Mum, who’s that?” the youngest asked, blunt as kids always are.
“Shush, Alfie,” his sister scolded.
Turns out, they lived near the factory in one of those old red-brick flats. The eldest was James, the girl—Emily. Natalie’s husband had died years back, and she’d been scraping by ever since.
“We manage,” she said with that same weary smile.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Her voice, Alfie’s blunt questions, the way James squared his shoulders like he carried the world—it all gnawed at me. Something *shifted*.
After that, I made excuses to drop by the shop. Milk, biscuits, anything. The lads at work noticed.
“Oi, Andy, three trips a day? Either you’ve got a crush or you’re hiding a tapeworm,” Pete, my foreman, teased.
“Fresh bread’s important,” I shot back, knowing full well I was fooling no one.
One evening, I waited for her shift to end. “Let me walk you home.”
“You don’t—”
“Honestly, it’s no trouble.”
Along the way, she talked about the kids—James doing odd jobs after school, Emily acing her maths, Alfie finally tying his laces.
“You’re kind,” she said suddenly. “But we don’t need pity.”
“Not pity,” I said. “I just… want to be here.”
Later, I fixed their leaky tap. Alfie hovered, fascinated.
“Can you fix my plane?” he asked, shoving a broken toy at me.
“Let’s have a look.”
Emily needed help with sums. We sat at the table, working through problems. Over tea, Natalie spoke softly about life. But James kept his distance until I overheard him:
“Mum, you really trust him? What if he leaves?”
“He’s different.”
“They’re *all* the same.”
I nearly walked out then. But I remembered Emily’s grin over her homework, Alfie’s laughter when the plane took flight—and stayed.
The rumours at work grew, but I stopped caring.
“You’re mad, Andy,” Vic said over a pint. “Find a nice girl without baggage.”
“Piss off,” I muttered, focusing on my lager.
One evening, Alfie and I were cutting shapes for a school project when he asked, out of nowhere:
“Uncle Andy, are you gonna stay forever? Like Dad?”
I froze. The floor creaked—Natalie stood in the doorway, hand pressed to her mouth before she fled.
I found her in the kitchen, face buried in a tea towel.
“Natalie—”
“I’m sorry. He doesn’t understand—”
“What if he’s right?” I turned her to face me.
Her eyes widened. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
James burst in then. “Mum! Did he hurt you?” He glared at me.
“No, James—”
“Liar! *Why* are you here?” he demanded.
“Because I want *you*,” I said plainly. “All of you. I’m not leaving.”
He stared, then slammed his bedroom door. The muffled sobs were worse than shouting.
I found him on the balcony, knees drawn up.
“Mind if I sit?”
He didn’t answer.
“I grew up without a dad too,” I said. “Mum tried, but… it’s hard.”
“So?”
“Just saying—I know what it’s like. No one to show you how to fix a bike, or how to stand up for yourself.”
“I can fight,” he muttered.
“I bet. You’re a good lad, James. But being a man isn’t just fists. It’s knowing when to let someone help. For your family.”
Silence. Then, barely audible:
“You *really* won’t leave?”
“Promise.”
“Swear?”
“On my life.”
James exhaled. “Just… don’t lie.”
Later, at the jeweller’s, the shopkeeper raised a brow. “A ring? For… *Natalie*?”
“Yes.” I picked a simple band with a tiny stone—honest, like her.
No grand gesture. Just wildflowers—she’d once said she preferred them to roses. That evening, Alfie launched himself at me.
“Who’re the flowers for?”
“Your mum.”
Natalie froze when she saw them.
“Natalie,” I began, voice steadier than I felt, “maybe it’s time we made it official? Feels odd, always being a guest.”
Emily gasped. James looked up from his book. And Natalie—she *cried*.
“Mum, why’re you sad?” Alfie panicked.
“Not sad, love. Just happy.”
We married quietly at the factory canteen. Natalie wore a dress she’d sewn herself; I wore a new suit. James stuck to her side all day. Emily decorated with her mates. Alfie announced, “He’s my *new dad*!” to anyone who’d listen.
A month later, the factory gave us a two-bed flat. Pete clapped my shoulder. “Get settled, newlywed. Just don’t expect *me* to paint.”
We did it ourselves. James plastered. Emily picked wallpaper. Alfie fetched tools. Natalie cooked, and we ate on the floor—the happiest days of my life.
Natalie left the shop—I convinced her to take a break. James started college. Emily took up dance. Alfie just… *glowed*.
Was it perfect? No. James came home drunk once, green around the gills. I didn’t shout. Just asked, “How’s the head?”
“Rotten,” he admitted.
“Good. Means you’ve got sense.”
He never did it again.
Five years on, Natalie and I sat on the balcony of our new three-bed. I’d made chief engineer. She leaned against me.
“Where would we be without you?”
“Where would *I* be without *you*?” I kissed her temple.
Inside, Alfie crashed his latest “invention.” Emily played piano. James appeared, tall and steady.
“Dad. You promised to teach me to drive.”
“Aye. Let’s go.”
And we did. Into life—built together, brick by brick.
Last week, James brought his girlfriend home. “This is Lizzie. She’s got no dad, thinks no one’ll want her ‘with baggage’.”
I looked at him. *He knew*.
Because family isn’t blood. It’s choice. It’s love.
And mine? It’s everything.
