The Daughter Returns
“I’m leaving, Dad,” Emily’s voice wobbled, but her eyes burned with stubbornness. She stood in the doorway of their cramped kitchen, gripping her phone like a lifebuoy. On her denim jacket, a pin gleamed with the word “Dream.” “To Aunt Lily’s. In Manchester. At least there’s life there.”
Daniel froze, clutching a mug of cold tea. His daughter—his Emily—stared at him as if he were a stranger. Outside, the evening city hummed—car horns, laughter from neighbours’ kids—but inside his chest, it was quiet, like the calm before a storm.
“Leaving?” he repeated, struggling to keep his voice steady. His fingers tightened around the mug until his knuckles whitened. “You think it’ll be better there? Without me?”
“What’s here?” Emily scoffed, pushing dark hair from her face. “You’re stuck in the past. With Mum. With that bus of yours. I can’t do this anymore, Dad. I’m fifteen, and I feel like I’m in a cage!”
She turned and slammed her bedroom door behind her. The sound echoed through the flat. Daniel set the mug down, his heart squeezing. He knew she was right—he clung to the past like a lifeline. But letting her go? That was beyond him.
***
Morning in their council flat on the outskirts of town smelled of coffee, slightly burnt toast, and the engine oil Daniel brought home on his clothes. He woke at six, as always, to make the first shift. His old bus, faded blue and nicknamed “The Old Girl” by his mates, waited at the depot. Driving was routine but reliable—like a heartbeat. It kept him afloat after Sarah, his wife, died five years ago.
“Em, up! You’ll be late for school!” he called, flipping eggs at the stove. The pan sizzled; the radio played some pop song softly. Silence answered. These days, Emily barely spoke to him, hiding behind headphones or her phone screen.
“Dad, I’ve got it,” she grumbled, finally appearing. Her school blazer was crumpled, her trainers scuffed, her backpack slung over one shoulder. “Were you in the garage all night again?”
“Just tweaking the engine,” Daniel shrugged, handing 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 she was cross. Sometimes Daniel saw his wife in her, laughing in their old flat when they’d just started out. But Sarah was gone—cancer took her fast, leaving him with ten-year-old Emily and a void he’d never filled.
“Dad, I’ll be late tonight,” Emily tossed over her shoulder, heading for the door. “School project, then hanging with Chloe.”
“Fine, just call,” he said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Don’t stay out too late, Em. I worry.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she huffed, leaving behind the scent of her fruity shampoo.
Daniel sighed, finished his coffee, and headed to the depot. His bus was more than a machine—it was his world: the smell of diesel, the creak of vinyl seats, the familiar faces of passengers who greeted him every morning. But Emily hated it. “Dad, it’s just like you—old and boring,” she’d said once, and it cut deeper than he’d expected.
***
Daniel didn’t notice when it started. He was twenty when he first saw Sarah—standing at the bus stop in a light blue dress, her plait messy, arguing with the conductor over loose change. Daniel, then a trainee, opened the doors and grinned.
“Just get on,” he winked, adjusting his cap. “No need to shout half the street down.”
“I wasn’t shouting,” Sarah huffed, but she smiled, cheeks pink. “You always this nice?”
“Only to pretty ones,” he joked, and she laughed, head thrown back.
That was their beginning. Sarah taught music at a primary school, played guitar, sang old songs—from The Beatles to Bowie. She dreamed of travel, of the sea, of a house with a garden where Emily could run barefoot. Daniel promised her all of it, but life had other plans. Emily arrived when they were just past thirty, and Sarah glowed, humming lullabies. Then came the doctors, the diagnosis, the hospital rooms. Daniel held her hand till the end, but it wasn’t enough.
“Look after Emily,” Sarah whispered in that sterile room, her voice frail as autumn leaves. The place reeked of antiseptic; rain tapped the window. “And yourself, Daniel. Don’t forget to live.”
“I promise,” he said, but tears choked him. He didn’t know how to live without her.
After the funeral, Daniel buried himself in work. The bus became his refuge—there, he didn’t have to think, just steer, listen to the radio, pretend everything was fine. Emily grew up, but with each year, a wall rose between them. She blamed him for his silence, for clinging to Sarah. He didn’t know how to explain he was afraid of losing her too.
***
That evening, Daniel came home early, groceries in hand—potatoes, milk, Emily’s favourite yoghurts. Her bedroom door was ajar. He meant to call her for dinner but froze at her voice on the phone, each word a hammer blow.
“Yeah, Aunt Lily, I’m serious,” Emily’s tone was sharp, almost angry. “I want to come to Manchester. Dad… he’s not living, he’s just existing. Always in that bus, always stuck on Mum. I can’t breathe here. He doesn’t even see me!”
Daniel stepped back, the floor tilting. Emily wanted to leave? Abandon him? He slumped at the kitchen table, staring into his empty mug. Memories of Sarah surged—trips to the lake, Emily small and laughing, Sarah singing. When had it all turned so distant?
The next day, he made a decision. Emily mattered more than his fear, his pain, his bus. He rang his mate Gary, a mechanic at the depot, while peeling potatoes for dinner.
“Gaz, fancy patching up The Old Girl?” Daniel asked, leaning against the sink. “Want to take Em somewhere. Like we used to.”
“Blimey, getting sentimental?” Gary laughed, tools clinking. “Give us a couple days. But you sure? Emily hates that bus.”
“Yeah,” Daniel gripped the phone. “Last trip.”
“Fair play,” Gary whistled. “Right, clean the headlamps—looks like a museum piece.”
Daniel smirked, but his chest was heavy. This wasn’t just a drive. It was his chance to bring her back.
***
A week later, everything was ready. Daniel took time off—something he hadn’t done in years—and with Gary’s help, fixed the bus: new engine parts, cleaned seats, replaced a cracked window. He hung the blue gingham curtains Sarah had sewn, dug out an old cassette player, even found a box of Sarah’s recordings—her voice singing “Yesterday.” Emily knew nothing; she’d come home, dump her bag, and vanish into her room, music blaring.
On Friday night, Daniel knocked. Emily sat on her bed, scrolling through her phone, earbuds dangling.
“Em, need to talk,” he said, leaning in the doorway.
“What now?” She looked up, tone prickly. “If it’s about grades, I handed everything in.”
“Not grades,” he coughed. “We’re going out tomorrow. You and me. In the bus.”
“In that wreck?” Emily wrinkled her nose. “Seriously, Dad? That’s embarrassing. I’ve got plans with Chloe.”
“Won’t take long,” he forced a smile. “Promise you’ll like it. Like old times. Remember the lake?”
Emily studied him, her gaze softening for a second. She sighed, set her phone aside.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But if it’s rubbish, I’ll never let you forget it.”
“Deal,” he nodded, heart thudding.
***
Saturday morning was clear, the sky like polished glass. Daniel packed a picnic—cheese sandwiches, a thermos of tea, Emily’s favourite chocolate biscuits. She emerged in jeans, trainers, and that same denim jacket with the “Dream” pin. At the sight of the bus, she rolled her eyes.
“Dad, this is your plan?” She crossed her arms. “Are we time-travelling to the ’90s?”
“Get in,” Daniel opened the door, ignoring her tone. “Trust me, just once.”
Reluctantly, Emily climbed in, slumping by the window. The engine sputtered to life, and the bus lurched forward. He pressed play on the cassette player—Sarah’s voice filled the cab, singing “Yesterday.” Emily stiffened, fingers twisting her backpack strap.
“Mum’s?” she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the window.
“Yeah,” Daniel kept his eyes on the road, but his lips twitched. “She always sang on drives.As they drove home under a sky scattered with stars, Emily leaned her head against the window, eyes half-closed, and whispered, “Thanks, Dad,” while Daniel tightened his grip on the wheel, knowing this was just the beginning of finding their way back to each other.
