**Diary Entry – 12th of May**
*I still can’t believe it. How could he? “Leave me alone! I never promised to marry you! And frankly, I don’t even know if that child is mine. Maybe it isn’t at all. So, go enjoy your little waltz through life, and I’ll be on my way,”* that’s what Victor, always away on business, spat at poor, heartbroken Emily. She just stood there, frozen, unable to believe what she was hearing. Was this the same Victor who had whispered sweet nothings, carried her in his arms, called her his darling Emmy? The man before her now—flustered, angry, a stranger—was nothing like him.
Emily cried for a week, waving goodbye to Vicky for good. At thirty-five, plain-faced, with little hope of ever finding love again, she made her choice. She kept the baby.
In due time, a loud, squalling girl arrived—Lily. The child grew quiet, undemanding, as if she understood that no amount of fussing would change anything. Emily wasn’t cruel—she fed Lily, dressed her, bought toys. But the warmth was missing. No cuddles, no walks, no extra affection. Tiny hands reached out only to be brushed aside—too busy, too tired, always something. That motherly instinct? It never woke.
Then, when Lily turned seven, the unthinkable happened—Emily met a man. Worse, she brought him home! The whole village was gossiping. *Emily? That flighty woman? And him—no proper job, not from around here, probably a swindler!*
She worked at the village shop; he’d started unloading lorries there. That’s how it began. Soon, David—that was his name—moved in. The neighbours muttered—*bringing a stranger home, what about the child? And he barely speaks—hiding something, no doubt.* But Emily didn’t listen. Maybe she knew—this was her last shot at happiness.
Then, something changed. The house, worn down without a man’s touch, started to mend. David fixed the porch, patched the roof, straightened the sagging fence. Day by day, he worked, and the house came alive. People took notice—asked for help. His rule? *“If you’re old or broke, I’ll do it free. Otherwise, pay me—money, preserves, meat, eggs, milk.”*
For the first time, there was cream in the fridge, fresh milk, butter—luxuries Lily had rarely known. David’s hands were magic. A jack of all trades, they said. And Emily—never a beauty—glowed now, softer, kinder. Even to Lily. She smiled—turned out she had dimples. Funny, that.
Lily, now in school, would sit on the porch, watching David work—how everything just *worked* in his hands. One evening, she came home late from a friend’s and froze. There, in the yard—*a swing!* Swaying gently in the breeze, calling to her.
*“For me? David—did you make this?”*
*“Course I did, love. Go on, try it!”* The usually quiet man laughed as she flew back and forth, wind whipping through her hair—happier than anyone in the whole wide world.
With Emily gone early for work, David took over the cooking—breakfast, lunch, pies, casseroles. He taught Lily to set a table, to cook. Who knew so much lay beneath that silence?
Winter came. Dark mornings. David walked her to school, carried her satchel, told stories—caring for his sick mother, selling his flat to help her, then being cheated out of his childhood home by his own brother.
He taught her to fish—waking at dawn, sitting quietly by the river, learning patience. That summer, he bought her first bike, steadied her as she wobbled, dabbed iodine on her scraped knees.
*“She’ll break her neck,”* Emily fretted.
*“No, she won’t. She needs to learn to fall—and get back up.”*
One New Year’s Eve, under the tree—*ice skates.* Brand new, gleaming. That night, they feasted, laughed, clinked glasses. And in the morning, Lily’s shrieks woke the house—*“Skates! Real ones! Thank you, thank you!”*
At the frozen river, David cleared the ice, teaching her step by step. She fell; he caught her. Then—*she did it.* Gliding, not stumbling. She threw her arms around him—*“Thank you… Dad.”*
Now *he* cried. Brushing away tears that froze before they fell.
Years passed. Lily left for uni, faced struggles—but he was always there. At graduation, hauling groceries so his girl wouldn’t go hungry.
He walked her down the aisle. Waited outside the maternity ward, jittery with her husband. Doted on his grandkids—loved them deeper than blood ever could.
Then, as we all must, he left. At the graveside, Lily tossed a handful of earth, breath ragged—*“Goodbye, Dad. Best father in the world. I’ll never forget you.”*
And she never did. Not as David, the stepdad. But as *Father.* Because a father isn’t always the one who made you—it’s the one who raised you. Shared your joy, your pain. Stayed.
— *Loneliness Beyond the Screen.*
