**Diary Entry – 10th May 2023**
It’s been years since I last went home. The first two at uni in Manchester, I still made it back for holidays. Mum, of course, would feed me like a king—all my favourite dishes piled high. After three or four days, though, the boredom crept in. My old mates had all moved away, and there was nothing to do.
Bristol’s a small city, familiar down to every tree. You can walk the whole place in an afternoon. After a week of loafing about, I’d start itching to leave. Mum would beg me to stay another week, but I’d make up some excuse—a project, a shift at work—and head back to London without a second thought. The noise, the life—that’s where the fun was. New friends, new places. What was there for me back home? Just stale air and aching boredom.
By my third year, I picked up evening shifts at a burger joint, right when the crowds poured in. Loved it. The money was decent, too—student loans didn’t stretch far. Stopped taking Mum’s help, proud of myself. She’d call, asking if I’d come back for Christmas. I’d promise, even though the café was busiest then.
After New Year’s, lectures started again. I put off going home till summer. But come June, I switched to full-time hours. Life in the city rushed by. Before I knew it, I had my degree. Spent days celebrating with the lads—who knew when we’d all meet again?
Then my mate Jamie pitched an idea: work abroad.
“Come to Spain with me. You’re perfect for it. Decide now, though—documents need sorting. The bloke I was going with dropped out. His girlfriend’s pregnant, so he’s tying the knot. Year-long contract. Your Spanish is decent enough—you’ll pick up the rest.”
See the world while we’re young, he said. Before jobs, mortgages, kids, and the annual week in Majorca.
I said yes. Weeks of frantic doctor visits, paperwork, visas. The night before the flight, I rang Mum. Guiltily promised I’d be back in a year, swore I’d visit.
“A whole year, Tom? Can’t you stop by, even for a day? I’m forgetting what you look like,” she pleaded.
“Sorry, Mum. Flight’s tomorrow, tickets in hand. Can’t let the lads down. Love you—I’ll call.”
In Spain, we lived hotel-adjacent, ate there too. Some rented flats. Money stacked up—no time to spend it. Penalties for slacking, but I loved the grind.
Three years later, I returned. Bought a flat on a mortgage, landed a job. Called Mum in passing, always saying I’d visit—just had to sort this one thing first. But things piled up.
One weekend, Jamie and I hit a club. Drank, danced, woke up with a girl in my bed. Couldn’t tell if she was pretty—dark hair fanned over her face. Didn’t move it, didn’t want to wake her. No clue how she got there or what her name was.
Slipped out, showered under scalding water, debating how to kick her out nicely.
Stepped into the kitchen—she was there, wearing nothing but my shirt, legs bare, scrambling eggs. The scent of coffee, cheese neatly sliced. Stunning. Plans of eviction vanished.
“Sorry, your fridge is tragic,” she smirked.
Her name was Lola (probably fake, but who cared?). She stayed a month. Fun, uncomplicated—exactly what I wanted. Slept till noon while I worked, dragged me out drinking every night.
Exhaustion set in. My boss side-eyed me. Knew Lola was leeching off blokes for her looks. Time to end it before I got sacked. Money bled dry.
So I bolted home for the weekend, hoping she’d take the hint. Bought Mum gifts, called Lola from the station: “Gone home. No idea when I’m back.”
“What about me?” she whined.
I pictured her pouting on the sofa, phone in hand, legs stretched out. Felt nothing.
“Do what you want,” I said, hanging up.
On the train, I imagined pressing the doorbell, hearing Mum’s gasp, her arms wrapping around me.
Guilt gnawed at me—rare calls, no visits. Dad died when I was fifteen. Mum was still young—what if she’d moved on? What if some bloke was at the table now?
At the door, I paused. Silence. Then the bell’s chime. No footsteps.
The door cracked open. A little girl, maybe seven, clutching a teddy, stared up.
“Who’re you here for?” she asked, all business.
“Hi. Any adults home?”
She frowned—clearly offended I’d implied she wasn’t grown-up enough.
“Who d’you want?”
“Weren’t you taught not to open doors to strangers?”
“Thought you were Gran.”
“Gran? You mean Nan Linda?”
“She’s not ‘Nan,’ she’s Gran,” the girl huffed, tugging the door shut.
“Wait—this is my house!”
“Nope. Gran Linda’s and mine and Mum’s.”
A gasp behind me. A bag hit the floor, apples rolling.
Mum stood frozen.
“Tom!” She hugged me tight, her lily-of-the-valley perfume wrapping around me. When had she gotten so small?
“Sorry I stayed away so long,” I whispered.
Inside, the girl—Lily—watched us, curious. Mum shooed her off.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
Mum gave me a look. “Tea first. You’ll be starving.”
“Got any roast?”
“Made it yesterday.”
She bustled about. A plate of steaming beef appeared.
“Missed this,” I mumbled between bites.
“You never visited. No ring—not married. Good.”
“Who’s the girl? Why’s she calling you Gran?”
“Because I am.”
“How? I don’t have kids.”
“Remember that fling last time you visited?”
“I didn’t—” Then it hit me.
Last visit, after second year. All my mates were gone. Ran into Emily Carter—quiet girl from school, mousy, invisible. Her mum had died; she lived with her drunk dad.
Out of boredom, I took her to the cinema. Next day, she confessed she’d fancied me forever. Felt sorry for her. One thing led to another—never saw that passion before. Left two days later, forgot her.
Mum explained: “When her dad found out she was pregnant, he kicked her out. She came to me. Wanted an abortion. I wouldn’t let her. Stayed here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? How d’you know she’s mine?”
“Emily wouldn’t let me. Said she’d tell you herself when you visited. But you never came. She cried, said you didn’t love her. Didn’t want to trap you. Good girl, Tom.”
Mum fetched photos—me at seven, Lily now. Spitting image.
“You’d have called her a liar. Would you have stayed? Skipped Spain?”
The door clicked. Emily walked in, glowing, confident—unrecognisable from the timid girl I’d known.
“Back, then,” she said lightly, handing Mum groceries.
Lily clung to her. Same cornflower-blue eyes.
Mum whisked Lily away.
“You’ve changed. Gorgeous,” I blurted.
Emily flushed. *She still loves me.*
Later, I asked what Lily knew about me.
“That you’ve a secret job but you’ll come home soon,” Emily laughed. “Didn’t fancy inventing a dead war hero.”
“Will you tell her?”
“Want to? You tell her.”
That night, I barely slept. Fatherhood? A family? By morning, we walked Lily to the park, her swinging between us. *This could work.*
Before my train, Mum warned: “Sort your life. They need you.”
Back in London, Lola lounged on the sofa, phone in hand.
“You’re back!” She lunged, lips aiming for mine.
“Tired. Any food?”
“Didn’t know you were coming. Pizza?”
“Pack your things. My daughter’s moving in.”
“*Daughter?*”
“Out. Now.”
She screeched, hurled a slipper. I left, smoked my first cig in years on a bench, watched her cab pull away.
Cleared the flat of every trace of her—even hairs in the drain.
Mum’s right. Time to grow up. Emily, Lily—they’re my family now. That’s what matters.
