The Only Man in the Family Over breakfast, Vera, the eldest daughter, stared at her phone screen and asked, “Dad, have you seen today’s date?” “No, what’s special about it?” he replied. Instead of answering, she turned her mobile so he could see: a neat string of digits—11.11.11—meaning November 11, 2011. “That’s your lucky number, 11—today there are three in a row! You’re going to have an amazing day.” “If only your words brought honey,” Val, her father, chuckled. “Yes, Daddy,” chimed in little Nadia, her eyes glued to her own phone. “Horoscope says Scorpios will have a fateful meeting and a once-in-a-lifetime gift today.” “Well, maybe a mysterious European or American relative we’ve never heard of has died—left us their entire fortune…” “Billionaire, Dad!” Vera giggled. “Millions are small fry for you.” “True,” he agreed, “what would we do with all that money? Buy a villa in Italy or the Maldives, a yacht next…” “And a helicopter, Dad,” Nadya joined the fantasy. “I want my own helicopter…” “No problem. You’ll get your helicopter. And you, Vera?” “I want to star in a Bollywood movie with Salman Khan.” “No sweat. I’ll call Amitabh Bachchan, we’ll sort it out… All right, dreamers, finish your breakfast, we have to leave soon.” “In this house, you’re not even allowed to dream,” Nadya mock-sighed. “You should always dream,” Val said, finishing his tea and standing. “But don’t forget about school…” He remembered that breakfast conversation at the end of a long, tiring day, in the supermarket as he bagged groceries. The promised “amazing day” had not come true: instead of happiness, only more work and fatigue. There had been no significant acquaintance, let alone a gift for life. “Happiness flew by, like a plane over Paris,” he smirked, leaving the supermarket. Outside, a scruffy boy was circling his faithful old Ford Escort, which had served the family for over twenty-five years. A runaway, by the look of him: unkempt, dressed in tatters, mismatched shoes—on the left, a murky trainer; on the right, a worn-out boot laced with a blue electric wire; on his head, a battered trapper hat, the right ear-flap burnt a third off. “Mister… I’m hungry, please… could I have some bread?” The boy’s voice was timidly hesitant as Val approached. It wasn’t the boy’s pitiful look or the Dickensian phrase, borrowed straight from Oliver Twist, that tugged at Val’s heart, but the slight stammer—a lesson from his amateur theatre days: a real feeling, or just an act? The kid was lying. The stammer was a dead giveaway: all theatre, all pretense. But why? If there is a sixth sense, Val felt it then: this drama was staged just for him. Why? “All right, mate,” thought Val, “let’s play along. My girls will love this; they’d be detectives if they could.” “You can’t fill up on bread alone. How about a bowl of stew, some potatoes and herring, and a mug of fruit compote with hot Chelsea buns?” offered Val. The child faltered, surprised, but quickly regained composure and nodded: “Yes.” This was Val’s standard test. Real street kids, when handed a bag crammed with food, bolted. Val could always catch them; he’d give them a playful clip on the head and say, “Don’t be wild—you’re a human child.” He deliberately fumbled for his keys, called home to announce his imminent return, back turned to the boy. The imposter didn’t run. He just stood there, clutching the shopping bag, head down, toe digging at the tarmac. “Thank you, kid,” Val grinned inwardly. “Didn’t fancy a sprint tonight.” When they arrived at the house, the girls rushed outside. Bags were grabbed, doors flung open. “What’s this, Dad?” Nadya finally noticed the boy. “This,” Val smiled, “is that fateful acquaintance and once-in-a-lifetime gift you predicted this morning.” “Awesome, Dad,” Nadya grinned, peering under the boy’s hat, “the best present ever. Are you sure he’s ours?” “Absolutely. Clung to my leg, screaming, ‘I’m your present!’ There was no shaking him off.” “What’s his name?” Vera joined in. “No label. No price tag,” he shrugged. Nadya grabbed the boy’s shoulder reassuringly: “Hello? Anyone home in there?” No answer. “Line must be bad out here. Let’s get inside—maybe it’ll improve,” Vera smiled meaningfully at her father. Val and his daughters spoke volumes with their eyes—they’d been through this before. He gave her five minutes, fingers spread wide. Vera winked: “We only need three.” “Drag our present inside, Nadya. Let’s investigate this Mysterious Walking Object.” Within moments, Nadya had the boy in hand and escorted him inside, joking about weird noises in his stomach and “loose screws” while Vera suggested they might need Dad’s toolbox to fix up the ‘robot.’ After parking the car and making everything ready for morning, Nadya burst out: “Dad, he’s lying!” “How do you know?” “Elementary, Watson. He doesn’t smell like a street kid—he’s completely ‘home-grown.’” “You sniffed him?” “Trust me, I did. Want to know what he smells like?” “Chelsea buns? Baby soap? Warm milk?” “You’re out of guesses. Here’s what,” she said, showing him her sooty hand. “Makeup?” Val asked after sniffing. “Bravo! Stage makeup. Laid it on thick so we’d think poor thing was filthy.” “His name’s Bull—only street kids get names like that. I asked Google. ‘Bull’ is a stud cow…” “We’ll fatten him up, auction him,” Val joked. “But seriously, Nadya?” “Dad! Jokes aside. He deliberately targeted you—dressed up in rags, smeared on makeup, took the stage. One-Man Theatre. Why?” Before Val could answer, Vera shouted from the door: “Do we have any sulphuric acid left?” “Half a can. Bringing it,” Nadya answered, grabbing a random canister. “We dissolve them in acid now, right down the drain…” “Monsters,” Val grinned. “Monsterettes,” Nadya corrected, dashing inside. “Dad, wash up, everything’s ready!” they called from the kitchen. “We’re starving, ready to gnaw on our ‘Bull,’” joked Vera. “Milk-fed—I’d crunch his little bones,” Nadya added with a wink. Val smiled, going to wash up: “What a pack of pigs—poor lad, hold on, I’m coming!” The ‘Bull’ sat sheepishly at the kitchen table. Clean and changed, he looked more ten than miserable. Gingersnap hair (as the poet said, ‘red as a fox’), a striped vest marked ‘USSR,’ torn blue jeans, bare feet tucked under his stool. He sat tall, calm, as though this was his own family table. The girls noticed the transformation, exchanging glances. “Something’s up with you, my friend,” thought Val, still watching him. “Your performance was all to get here. Why? Nadya’s right—you look like a clever, well-raised boy, not a thief. So what’s your real goal?” “Dad, you with us?” Vera tugged at his sleeve. “Thanks, I’m stuffed. Bless the cooks.” “You were out forever—daughters grew up, married. Hello granddad, meet your grandkids!” “And this chap’s your boyfriend?” Val nodded at the boy as Vera handed him tea. “He’s our house Bull. Cute, isn’t he?” Nadya teased, ruffling his hair. “We’re fattening him up—come summer, beef prices soar.” “Enough!” the boy cried suddenly, then softer, more nervously, “Vera, Nadya, stop…I surrender. Val…Mr. Zvyagin… I’m sorry, I went about everything wrong…” “Sit, sit,” said Val. “Take your time. Start from the beginning.” “Yes, but tell the truth,” insisted Nadya. “No lies—I’ll sniff them out.” “I won’t. I hate lying…” The truth stunned the Zvyagins. Spartacus ‘Bull’ Bugayev (he even showed his birth certificate), just one day older than Nadya, eleven years old. His father had died in the last Chechen war before Spartacus was born; his mother, seven months pregnant, went into labor from the shock, and only his baby sister survived. Their elder sister, not quite adult, fought to keep the family out of care homes. They grew up, four siblings; the ‘babies’ were Nadya and Lyuba. In October, Spartacus realized his middle sister, Sophia, was love-struck. She finally confided: she was madly in love… with Valery Zvyagin, local welder, divorcee, raising two daughters after his wife ran off to Argentina. He sometimes took in stray kids and found them real homes because he himself was from a care home—that’s why Sophia admired him. So Spartacus hatched a plan: disguise himself, break into the Zvyagin home, and see for himself if Val and the girls were genuinely good. Could they love his sister, make her happy? He had not counted on the girls’ uncanny detective skills. “You’re wonderful, really. Vera, Nadya—you’re amazing. Mr. Zvyagin, please, marry my sister. You’ll love her. She’s the kindest soul… She was afraid to ask—thought you wouldn’t want ‘a girl with a brood of kids.’” Nadya snorted, “Brood of kids? We’ll sort out your upbringing!” “We will,” she nodded. “Dad, are you in shock from the proposal? Or are we going on a proper proposal ourselves?” “It’s like a soap opera,” Val chuckled. “I’d noticed Sophia, too… My ex couldn’t handle two kids, so she flew away. Now, could a young woman handle a whole bunch?” “She’s twenty-three, Dad—only ten years younger than you. No big deal,” Nadya said. “You’ll be her rock and inspiration—and we’ll help too, won’t we, Spartacus?” “Yes!” he agreed. “Dad, please?” The girls crowded him, smiling. “Yes… but we have to ask the bride…” “She says yes!” Spartacus shook Val’s hand, solemnly. “As the only man in her family, I give you my sister’s hand.” Val hugged the boy. Tears stung his eyes—Vera sniffled, too. “See, Dad?” Nadya crowed, “You never believed it, but you did get your once-in-a-lifetime gift today: a big, happy family!” The Only Man at the Heart of a Family—A Fateful Encounter, a Mysterious ‘Gift,’ and the Unexpected Beginning of a New Life Together

The Only Man in the Family

This morning at breakfast, my eldest daughter Emily was scrolling on her phone when she suddenly looked up and asked, Dad, have you seen todays date?

No, why? I replied, reaching for my tea.

She spun her phone around: the screen displayed the numbers 11.11.11, the 11th of November, 2011.

Thats your lucky number, Dad11! And look, three in a row. Todays bound to be brilliant for you.

With talk like that, you could sell honey to the bees, I chuckled.

Honestly, Dad, piped up my youngest, Lucy, never one to miss out. Her eyes never left her phone. It says here, Scorpios could expect a fateful meeting and a present to last a lifetime.

Brilliant, I said. No doubt theres a long-lost uncle in America or Europe whos just kicked the bucket and left us as his only heirs. Undoubtedly a millionaire

Billionaire, Dad, giggled Emily. A million wouldnt even cover the shopping these days.

True, a million wouldnt buy us much. So, what should we do with all this imaginary money? Buy a manor in the Lake District? A yacht on the Thames?

And a helicopter, Dad! Lucy chimed in. I want my own helicopter.

Done. Well get you a helicopter. How about you, Emily? Whats your dream?

I want to star in a film. With Hugh Grant. In Hollywood.

Well, thats easy. Ill ring up Richard Curtis, he owes me a favour Right, enough daydreaming, girls. Finish your breakfast, weve got to go soon.

Oh, were not even allowed to dream, Lucy sighed with mock drama.

I didnt say that. Keep dreaming, both of you, I said, finishing my tea and getting up from the table. But dont forget youve got school.

I found myself thinking about that mornings conversation at the end of a long, exhausting day as I packed groceries into bags at the supermarket. The day had been anything but luckymore work piled up, I had to stay late, and I was absolutely knackered. No new friends, not a hint of a present, let alone one for a lifetime.

Happiness just flew right past me, like a paper plane over St. Pauls, I muttered, leaving the supermarket behind.

As I made my way to my well-loved Ford Fiestathe cars been with us for a quarter of a centuryI spotted a boy loitering nearby. He looked every bit the straya waif in tattered clothes, mismatched shoes: a faded trainer on one foot, a battered boot with a bent toe on the other, held together with a blue wire where the lace should be. His head was topped with a threadbare woolly hat, one ear severely burnt away.

Mister, I Im hungry, could you spare some bread? the boy stammered just as I reached my car.

The way he spoke, that tiny hiccup in his voiceit reminded me of my own acting days at the local theatre as a lad. Wed spent ages learning how a real stumble, not a rehearsed one, could tell you if someone was genuinely living the part. That little trip in his sentence was the giveaway. He was acting.

He was a fraudthough not in a cruel way. It was all a performance. I could feel it, as sure as a sixth sense. And it was put on just for me. So, I decided to play along. I could already imagine my girls delightthey adore a good detective game.

Bread wouldnt fill you up, I told him. How about a bowl of stew, a pile of mash with sausages, and a nice hot pudding for afters? Sound good?

He froze briefly, thrown by my offer, but soon gathered himself, eyes narrowing.

Well played, mate, I thought. The masks slipping.

So? I asked, Yes or no?

Yes, he whispered.

Lovely. Here, hold this for me, would you? Just for a second.

This was my standard test. Real runaways, on receiving a shopping bag brimful of food, would bolt. They never realised how exhaustion made them slow, and I could always catch up, ruffling their hair lightly and telling them, Youre not a wild thing, youre a child.

Deliberately dawdling, I rummaged for my keys, phoned Emily, and turned my back to the lad.

Emily, have you started the potatoes? Salad? I said. Right then, heat a bit of stew for mebe home in twenty. Love you, bye.

The boy hadnt run. He stood aside, head bowed, gripping the bag tightly, toe scuffing the tarmac.

Cheers, mate, I grinned to myself. Not in the mood for a sprint tonight.

Keys in hand, I loaded the groceries onto the back seat and opened the front door for him. All aboard, sir. Dinners almost ready.

He clambered in, nervous. We drove in silence, seven miles inland to our little village, where Ive been a gasman for over a decade. Its just me and my girls nowno family to speak of, and as someone who grew up in care, I always felt deeply for kids who ended up on the streets or in homes. I did what I could to helpmany a runaway Id brought down this road, given a meal, found a new family. If not for all the red tapeif being a single dad with two girls and not enough space wasnt a dealbreakerId have adopted every lost soul myself. What children need isnt a palace, but love. Thats what they rarely find in care homes. Mine may not be a complete family, but here a child could find real love.

The systems bonkers, really. These social workers know that thousands of complete families are far from loving, but insist by law that only they are fit for children. Me and my girlswell, were the odd ones out, apparently.

Idiots, I muttered, catching myself glancing at my passenger, hoping he didnt take it personally.

He sat hunched, pulling his hat down over his ears, breathing quietly. Odd boy, this onenot like the usual tough kids from the street. Maybe he had only just escaped home, was still in shock.

Perhaps I was too quick to judge, I thought. Maybe the performance was just nerves and confusion. Never mind. Get him home, cleaned up, fed, let him rest. Hell open up in time.

My daughters were waiting on the steps outside, and dashed over as soon as we pulled up, eager to help with the groceries.

What have you got there, Dad? asked Lucy, spying the boy.

Oh, just your fateful meeting and lifetime gift, I teased with a grin.

Brilliant, Dad! Lucy got close, peering under the hat. Best present ever. Are you sure youve not picked up someone elses?

Oh, he clung to my leg, I joked. Cried, Im yours! Couldnt shake him.

What do we call this present? Emily asked, coming in with the bags.

No name, I said.

No label or price tag? she grinned.

None.

Right, Dad, youve been sold a dud. Dont worrystill goes in the recycling, Lucy sighed theatrically.

The boy tensed more than ever, looking ready to flee. Lucy seemed to sense it and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Hello? Whos inside this house? she asked, ruffling his hat playfully.

He shrank in, silent.

No reception here, I suppose, Emily smirked, Lets take him indoorsmight start working.

She caught my eye, and with that silent understanding that comes from years together, she let me know shed sussed him outnot streetwise, not talkativeperhaps our good cop, bad cop routine would work.

I gave a silent, Five minutes, tops.

Dont worry, Dad, threell be enough, she winked.

Come on, Lucy, lets get this unknown, walking object inside and see whats what.

Without ceremony, Lucy bundled him in. Emily joked, Dad, grab the pliers and soldering iron in case anything needs fixing!

The girls, with their captive, disappeared inside. I finished up in the garage: car checked, tools away, all set for another day. Just as I was locking up, Lucy came racing over.

Dad, hes lying!

Oh? Hows that, Sherlock?

Obvious, Watson! He doesnt smell like a street kidhes as homegrown as they come.

You sniffed him?

I did, she said, thrusting her hand in my face. Know what he smells of?

Er freshly baked bread? Baby soap? Warm milk?

Thats three guesses gone, she beamed. Its She held up her palm, smudged with black. Greasepaint!

I sniffed, scraped at itmakeup.

Spot on, Luce, I laughed. Put on to look grubby.

He said his name is Bullock, but I Googled itmeans young bull! she huffed. Dad, Im telling you, he came for you on purpose.

Why?

Thats what we want to know! He wont answer. Give Emily another minuteshell get it out of him.

Lucy didnt finishthe crackle of Emilys voice came from the porch: Dad, do we still have any sulphuric acid left?

Lucy raced to grab a can from the garage. Half a can leftIll just dispose of this suspicious specimen

Villains! I called.

Villainesses! Lucy shot back, disappearing.

Dad, hands washed, dinners on! came Emilys shout from indoors as I stepped in. Were starvingcould eat the young bull ourselves.

Id pick his bones clean, Lucy agreed, grinning.

Terrible, my little wolves, I laughed as I headed for a wash. Youll have traumatised the poor lad

He was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, hair damp from a recent scrub, drying it with a towel. In clean clothes nowa red-and-black striped vest, faded blue jeanshe looked around ten, real ginger like a champagne autumn leaf. My girls finished setting the table, stealing glances at him, obviously curious.

He sat up straighter now, back straight, shoulders out. He didnt avoid our eyes; even the girls noticed, exchanging puzzled looks.

Somethings up here, I thought. He wanted to be here with us. Why? Hes not a bad kidnot a thief. But hes come for a reason

Dad, Earth to Dad, Emily teased, elbowing my sleeve. You going to eat, or doze out at the table?

Ah, sorry, love, daydreaming. Thats me done, thank youtop marks, both of you.

You were out for ages, Lucy added. We grew up, got marriedmeet your grandkids.

And this is your friend? I nodded at the boy.

Room pet, Lucy giggled. Isnt he sweet?

Were fattening him up, Emily said. Beefs fetching top price this summer.

They continued to tease him, but the boy suddenly stood, flustered. Please, Emily, Lucythats enough. I I give up. Mr. Barnes, Im sorry for the silly act

Sit, and just tell it straight, I said gently.

Promise. I wont lie. Dont even want to

The simple truth left us lost for words. Wed guessed many thingsnot this.

His name was Jack Bullock (he even showed a birth certificate for proof). He was one day older than Lucy, eleven as well. His dad died in the Middle Easta soldierand his mum, pregnant at the time, went into labour from the shock. Only his little sister survived. Four of them left, no close relatives. His eldest sister scraped together the right to keep them after Mum passed, just shy of adulthood herself. Grief made them grow up fast, and Jack and his sister (her name is Sophie) acted as stand-ins for their little sisters.

In early October, Jack noticed something was troubling Sophie. Turned out she was desperately in love with me. She was afraid to say so, afraid I wouldnt want herwhat with three younger siblings in tow.

She told Jack everything. When he heard my nameWilliam Barnes, engineer, single ten years since my wife ran off to Australiahe hatched a plan: impersonate a street kid, join our family, see how we lived, judge for himself. He was the only man in his familythat was his duty.

He hadnt counted on falling into the hands of my two half-detective girls, who instantly cracked his act.

I really like you, Jack said, his eyes bright. Emily, Lucy, youre wonderful. Mr. Barnes, please, would you would you marry my sister? Shes goodso kind, like our mum. Shes just afraid

Afraid of what? Emily asked, softly.

That you wouldnt want to marry her with all us lot, Jack said in a rush.

Good grief, what are you saying? Lucy said, flustered.

Well help you sort out that nonsense, Emily nodded. What do you think, Dad? Should we propose to her, or are you scared?

I had to laugh; it felt just like a film. Thing is, Id noticed Sophie tooa kind, gentle soul. Id been married before, of course, but my ex had tired of the mum thing quickly and left. I was warySophie was young, with a houseful of children

Shes twenty-three now, nearly twenty-four, interrupted Jack.

Dad, youre only ten years olderthats nothing, Lucy said eagerly.

Youre more experienced. Youd help and inspire her. Wed help too, right, Jack?

I will! he nodded.

Go on, Dadsay yes! the girls cheered, hugging me.

I nodded quietly. But only if Sophie wants

She does! Jack piped up, stepping forward. As the only man in the family, I hand my sister to you, sir.

I shook his hand hard and hugged him. Tears pricked my eyes, and even Emily sniffed.

See, Dad? Lucy crowed, breaking the silence. You laughed at me this morning, but it came true! A new friend, and a lifetimes gifta big, happy family. Its what you always wanted. And now, youve got it.

And I truly learned this: sometimes happiness sneaks in, not with a lottery win, but with those you care for, and those you open your heart to. Dreams do come truethey just dont always look the way you expect.