**Diary Entry**
I’ve been working at The Regency Cafe for two years now. It’s not the most glamorous job, but it’s steady. Dependable. The hum of chatter, the clink of cutlery, the scent of bacon and tea—it all feels familiar, like a second home. Sundays are my favourite. The morning light spills through the frosted windows just so, and the regulars drift in one by one.
There’s the elderly couple who always share a plate of scones with clotted cream. The lads from the local footie team, boisterous and always ordering full English breakfasts. A young mum with her toddler, who insists on carefully spreading jam on his toast herself, her brow furrowed in concentration. Even the bloke in the corner with his laptop, nursing a cuppa while pretending to write the next great British novel. They all make this place more than just a job.
But one man stood out more than the rest.
He always took the same table—third from the back, by the window overlooking the car park. Not much of a view, but he’d sit there, quiet, watching. Always alone. Wore the same worn-out tweed jacket, the elbows nearly threadbare. Sometimes he’d order a slice of Victoria sponge, sometimes a bacon bap, but never without tea.
And every Sunday, without fail, he left me a £100 tip.
No explanation. Just a small nod, a faint smile, and that crisp note tucked beneath his saucer.
The first time, I thought it was a mistake. I chased him out the door.
“Sir, you forgot—”
He turned, smiled gently, and said, “It’s for you, love.” Then he walked away.
After that, it became routine. Same table. Same quiet nod. Same £100. No words.
I’m not exactly flush. I share a tiny flat in Peckham with my tabby, Marmalade, and juggle two jobs while studying bookkeeping at night. That tip? It kept the lights on. Paid for groceries. Covered bus fares. But more than that, it made me feel… noticed. Like someone out there saw me, even if I didn’t know why.
“Reckon he fancies you?” My coworker and best mate, Alice, joked one evening over a shared bag of crisps.
“Doubt it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Maybe I remind him of someone.”
“Or maybe you’ve got a secret sugar daddy,” she teased.
I laughed, but I couldn’t stop wondering.
He never stayed long. Never made conversation. Just sipped his tea like he was savouring every moment. But I noticed things—the way his face softened when a child laughed, how he once paid for an old man’s meal and slipped out before being thanked. And how he knew my name, though I’d never told him.
Then came the Sunday everything changed.
He looked… different. Pale. Weary. Like life had worn him thin. When I asked if he needed anything, he glanced at my name tag.
“No, thank you… Emily,” he said softly, as if memorising it.
That was the first time he’d ever spoken my name.
When he left, the usual tip was there. Something nagged at me, so I snapped a quick photo of him walking to his car. Later, I posted it on my Instagram with a simple caption:
“This kind man comes to the cafe every Sunday and leaves £100. Never says much, but his generosity means more than he knows. Thank you.”
Ten minutes later, my phone rang.
Mum.
We hadn’t spoken in months. Things between us had always been strained—too many unspoken words. But something made me answer.
“Emily,” she said, voice tight. “Why did you post that photo?”
I frowned. “What? It’s just—”
“That man…” Her breath hitched. “That’s your father.”
The room spun. I stared at the screen, at the man I’d served countless times.
“That’s impossible. I don’t even remember him.”
She exhaled shakily. “You wouldn’t. He left before you turned two. I made sure of that.”
“Why?”
“I was angry,” she admitted. “He made mistakes. Abandoned us when we needed him most. I erased him completely.”
My chest burned.
“He came back months ago,” she continued. “He’s ill. Terminally. Cancer, I think. He begged to see you. I refused. But I told him where you worked. He just wanted to… watch over you, even from afar.”
Suddenly, the £100 made sense.
It wasn’t just kindness. It was regret. A broken man saying, *I see you. I’m sorry.*
I hung up, numb. Comments poured in on my post, but I ignored them. All I could see was his face—my father, the stranger I’d served for months.
That night, I cried for everything lost.
The next Sunday, I arrived early. I wasn’t sure he’d come, but there he was—tweed jacket, weary eyes—sliding into his usual spot.
This time, I didn’t hesitate. I sat across from him.
He startled. “Emily…”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked down. “I didn’t think you’d want to know me. I failed you. The least I could do was help, even if you never realised.”
I wanted to shout. To ask where he’d been every birthday, every lonely night. But all I said was, “You left.”
He nodded. “I know. And I’m sorry. I never stopped thinking of you.”
Silence settled between us.
“I don’t want your money,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said. “But I didn’t know how else to be there.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I need to get back to work.”
He didn’t stop me.
When I returned, he was gone. No tip.
Just a folded napkin with one word: *Sorry.*
That was the last time I saw him.
Two weeks later, a letter arrived. No return address. Inside, a cheque for £5,000 and a note in shaky handwriting:
*”For your future. For all the birthdays I missed. Maybe one day, you’ll forgive me. —Dad”*
I stared at it for hours. It wasn’t just money. It was all he had left to give.
I didn’t cash it straight away. I kept it in my drawer with the napkin until the day I enrolled in my final semester. Then I used it to pay my tuition.
I still work Sundays at The Regency. The regulars still come. But the third table by the window stays empty now.
Whenever I pass it, I smile. Not for the money.
But because, in his own way, he found his way back.
And that has to mean something.
