**Diary Entry – September 12th**
My daughter stood in the doorway of our cramped kitchen, gripping her phone like a lifeline. The pin on her denim jacket caught the light—*”Dream”* scrawled across it. “I’m leaving, Dad,” Emily said, her voice trembling but eyes alight with stubbornness. “To Aunt Sophie’s. In London. At least there’s life there.”
I froze, clutching my mug of cold tea. My Emily—my little girl—looked at me as if I were a stranger. Outside, the evening hummed with car horns and laughter from the neighbours’ kids, but inside my chest, silence yawned like the calm before a storm.
“Leaving?” I kept my voice steady, knuckles whitening around the mug. “You really think it’ll be better there? Without me?”
“What’s here?” She tossed her dark hair back, scowling. “You’re stuck in the past. With Mum. With that wretched bus. I’m fifteen, Dad—I feel like a bird in a cage!”
She spun on her heel and slammed her bedroom door. The sound echoed through the flat. I set the mug down, heart clawing up my throat. She wasn’t wrong—I clung to the past like driftwood. But to let her go? That was beyond me.
***
Morning in our council flat smelled of burnt toast, cheap coffee, and the engine grease I tracked in from work. I woke at six, as always, to make the first shift. My old bus—nicknamed *The Old Girl* by the lads at the depot—waited outside, her faded red paint peeling. Driving was dull but dependable, steady as a heartbeat. It kept me afloat after Sarah, my wife, died five years ago.
“Em, up! You’ll miss school!” I called, flipping eggs at the stove. The radio murmured some pop song. Silence answered. These days, Emily barely spoke to me, hiding behind headphones or her phone screen.
“Dad, I’ve got it,” she muttered, slouching into the kitchen. Her uniform was rumpled, trainers scuffed, backpack slung over one shoulder. “You were in the garage all night again?”
“Had to check the engine.” I shrugged, sliding her a plate of eggs and toast. “Eat. You’ll be starving by lunch.”
“Not hungry.” She rolled her eyes but took a bite. She looked so much like Sarah—same dark eyes, same stubborn chin, same frown when angry. Sometimes, staring at her, I saw Sarah laughing in our old flat when we were newlyweds. But cancer took her fast, leaving me with ten-year-old Emily and a hollow I could never fill.
“Dad, I’ll be late tonight,” Emily said, already halfway out the door. “School project, then hanging with Lily.”
“Fine. Just call,” I said, wiping my hands on a tea towel. “And don’t wander too late, Em. I worry.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She scoffed and vanished, leaving a trace of strawberry shampoo in the air.
I sighed, drained my coffee, and headed to the depot. *The Old Girl* was more than a bus to me—she was my world: the petrol scent, the vinyl seats’ creak, the regulars who nodded at me each morning. But Emily hated her. “Dad, she’s like you—old and boring,” she’d once said. It cut deeper than I’d expected.
***
I didn’t see it coming. I was twenty when I first met Sarah—standing at the bus stop in a floral dress, arguing with the conductor over shoddy change. I’d just started training, reckless enough to wave her on with a wink.
“Free ride,” I’d said, adjusting my cap. “Just stop shouting up the street.”
“I wasn’t shouting,” she’d shot back, but smiled, cheeks pink. “You always this cheeky?”
“Only for pretty girls.”
She’d laughed, head thrown back, and that was that. Sarah taught piano, loved The Beatles and Bowie, dreamed of a cottage by the sea where Emily would run barefoot in the garden. I promised her all of it—but life had other plans. Emily came along in our thirties, and Sarah glowed, humming lullabies. Then came the tests, the hospital stays. I held her hand to the end, but it wasn’t enough.
“Love Em,” she’d whispered in that sterile room, voice thin as autumn air. “And don’t forget to live, Andrew.”
I’d nodded, choking on tears. But living without her? I didn’t know how.
After the funeral, I buried myself in work. The bus was my refuge—no thinking, just the wheel, the radio, the pretence of normalcy. Emily grew up, but so did the wall between us. She blamed me for the silence, for clinging to Sarah. I didn’t know how to explain I was terrified of losing her too.
***
That night, I came home early with groceries—potatoes, milk, Emily’s yoghurts. She was in her room, door ajar. I meant to call her for dinner but froze at her words, sharp as glass.
“Yeah, Aunt Sophie, I’m serious,” she hissed into the phone. “I want to come to London. Dad’s not living—he’s just existing. Always in that stupid bus, always stuck on Mum. I can’t breathe here! He doesn’t even see me!”
I staggered back, the floor tilting. She wanted to leave? Abandon me? I slumped at the kitchen table, empty mug in hand. Memories surged—Sarah, little Emily, picnics by the lake. When had it all gone so wrong?
By morning, I’d made a decision. Emily mattered more than my fear, my grief, even *The Old Girl*. I rang Dave, a mate from the depot, while peeling spuds for dinner.
“Dave, fancy patching up *The Old Girl*?” I asked, leaning against the sink. “Want to take Em somewhere. Like the old days.”
“Blimey, getting sentimental?” He laughed, tools clinking. “Give us two days. But—she hates that bus, mate.”
“I know,” I said, gripping the phone. “It’s my last drive.”
***
A week later, the bus gleamed—engine purring, seats polished, curtains Sarah had sewn years ago fluttering at the windows. I’d even dug out her old mixtapes. Emily knew none of it, buried in her room with music blaring.
Friday evening, I knocked. She lounged on her bed, scrolling, earbuds dangling.
“Em, need to talk,” I said, leaning in the doorway.
“What now?” She glared. “If it’s about grades, I passed everything.”
“Not that. Fancy a trip tomorrow? You, me, the bus.”
“Your rust bucket?” She groaned. “Seriously? I’ve got plans with Lily.”
“Won’t take long.” I forced a smile. “Promise you’ll like it. Remember the lake?”
For a second, her face softened. She sighed, tossed her phone aside.
“Fine. But if it’s rubbish, I’m never listening to you again.”
***
Saturday dawned clear. I packed a hamper—cheese sandwiches, thermos of tea, Emily’s favourite digestives. She stomped out in jeans and that *Dream* pin, scowling at the bus.
“Dad, this is your grand plan?” She crossed her arms. “Are we time-travelling to the ’90s?”
“Just get in.”
She huffed but climbed aboard. The engine rumbled to life, and Sarah’s voice filled the speakers—*Yesterday*, her favourite. Emily went still.
“Is that… Mum?” she whispered.
“Yeah.” I kept my eyes on the road. “She always sang on drives. Remember?”
Emily didn’t answer, but she didn’t ask me to turn it off.
***
The lake was just as I remembered—reeds whispering, water lapping at the shore. I spread out a blanket, handed Emily the photo album.
“Look. Us with your mum. Simpler times.”
Her fingers traced a snapshot—her, tiny, perched on my shoulders, Sarah laughing with daisies in hand. Another of us eating ice cream, Emily’s face smeared with chocolate.
“I miss her, Dad,” she said quietly. “But you… you’re stuck. I need you *here*. With me.”
I pulled her close, and for once, she didn’t push away.
“I’m here, Em,” I murmured. “Always will be.”
We stayed till sunset, her playing some band I didn’t know—loud, all guitars and attitude. I teased her, she rolled her eyes, and for the first time in years, it felt easy.
***
She fell asleep on the drive home. I carried her inside, careful not to wake her. Next morning, she lingered at breakfast—no rush to flee.
“Dad, can we go again?” She nibbled toast. “Just… no ancient mixtapes next time.”
“Deal.” I grinned. “But the tapes stay. For nostalgiaAs I watched her smile over her cereal, I realised that sometimes the hardest journeys aren’t the ones we take on the road, but the ones we take to find each other again.
