**Diary Entry**
To avoid disgrace, she agreed to live with a hunchbacked man But when he whispered his request in her ear, she froze
“Tim, is that you, love?”
“Yes, Mum, its me! Sorry its so late”
Her voice trembled with exhaustion and worry as she stood in the dim hallway, clutching a torch in her old dressing gownas if shed been waiting for him all her life.
“Timothy, my darling, where on earth have you been till this hour? The skys pitch black, the stars shining like the eyes of woodland creatures”
“Mum, Dave and I were studying. Homework, revision I lost track of time. Im sorry I didnt call. You know how poorly you sleep”
“Or were you off seeing a girl?” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Dont tell me youve gone and fallen in love, eh?”
“Mum, dont be daft!” Tim laughed, kicking off his shoes. “Im not the sort lasses wait for by the gate. Whod want a hunchback with arms like a gorilla and a head like a thicket of weeds?”
But pain flickered in her eyes. She didnt say that she saw not a grotesque figure, but the son shed raised in poverty, in cold, in loneliness.
Tim truly wasnt handsome. Barely five foot three, hunched, with long, ape-like arms that nearly brushed his knees. His head was large, crowned with curls that stuck out like dandelion fluff. As a boy, theyd called him “monkey,” “woodland sprite,” “a freak of nature.” But he grewand became more than just a man.
He and his mother, Margaret, had come to this village when he was ten. Theyd fled the cityfrom shame, from hardship. His father jailed, his mother gone. Just the two of them against the world.
“That boy of yours wont last,” old Mrs. Tate would mutter, eyeing the frail child. “Hell vanish like smoke, and no onell notice.”
But Tim didnt vanish. He clung to life like roots to stone. He grew, he breathed, he worked. And Margareta woman with a heart of steel and hands ruined by years in the bakerybaked bread for the whole village. Ten hours a day, year after year, until she too broke.
When she took to bed, never to rise again, Tim became son, daughter, nurse, and doctor all at once. He scrubbed floors, cooked porridge, read old magazines aloud. And when she diedquiet as a breeze leaving the fieldhe stood by her coffin, fists clenched, silent. He had no tears left.
But people remembered. Neighbours brought food, gave him warm clothes. Then, unexpectedly, they started visiting. First, lads fascinated by radio techTim worked at the repair shop, fixing receivers, tuning antennas, soldering wires. His hands were golden, though they looked clumsy.
Then girls began dropping by. At first, just for tea and jam. Then staying. Laughing. Talking.
One day, he noticedone of them, Emily, always lingered last.
“Not in a rush?” he asked when the others had gone.
“Nowhere to be,” she murmured, staring at the floor. “Stepmother hates me. Three brothers, all rough and cruel. Dads a drunk. Im staying with a friend, but that wont last Here, its quiet. Peaceful. I dont feel alone.”
Tim looked at herand for the first time, understood he could be needed.
“Live with me,” he said simply. “Mums rooms empty. Youll be mistress of the house. And I Ill ask for nothing. Not a word, not a glance. Just be here.”
People talked. Whispered behind their backs:
“A hunchback and a beauty? What a joke!”
But time passed. Emily cleaned, cooked soup, smiled. And Timworked, stayed quiet, cared.
Then she had a son, and the world turned upside down.
“Whos he look like?” the village asked. “Who?”
But the boy, Daniel, gazed at Tim and said, “Daddy!”
And Tim, whod never dreamed of being a father, suddenly felt something warm unfurl in his chestlike a tiny sun.
He taught Daniel to fix sockets, fish, read. And Emily, watching them, said:
“You should find a wife, Tim. Youre not alone.”
“Youre like a sister to me,” he replied. “Ill see you married first. To a good man. Then well see.”
And a good man camea young farmer from the next village. Honest. Hardworking.
They held the wedding. Emily left.
But one day, Tim met her on the road and said:
“I want to ask Let me have Daniel.”
“What?” she gasped. “Why?”
“I know, Emily. When you bear a childit changes you. But Daniel hes not yours by blood. Youll forget him. And I I cant.”
“I wont give him up!”
“Im not taking him,” Tim said softly. “Come visit when you like. Just let him live with me.”
Emily hesitated. Then she called her son:
“Daniel! Come here! Tell mewho do you want to live with? Me or Dad?”
The boy ran over, eyes bright:
“Cant it be like before? With both of you?”
“No,” Emily said sadly.
“Then I stay with Dad!” Daniel cried. “But you visit, Mum!”
And so it was.
Daniel stayed. And Tim, for the first time, truly became a father.
But one day, Emily returned:
“Were moving to the city. Im taking Daniel.”
The boy howled like a wounded creature, clinging to Tim:
“I wont go! Im staying with Dad!”
“Tim” Emily whispered. “Hes not yours.”
“I know,” Tim said. “Ive always known.”
“Ill run back to Dad!” Daniel sobbed.
And he did. Again and again.
They took himhe returned.
Finally, Emily gave in.
“Let it be,” she said. “Hes chosen.”
Then began a new story.
Martha, their neighbour, lost her husbanda drunk, a tyrant. A hateful man. God had given them no childrenfor that house had no love.
Tim started dropping by for milk. Then fixing the fence, patching the roof. Then just visiting. Drinking tea. Talking.
They grew close. Slowly. Carefully. Like adults.
Emily wrote letters. Told him Daniel had a sisterDiana.
“Bring her,” Tim wrote. “Family should be together.”
A year later, they came.
Daniel doted on his sister. Held her, sang lullabies, taught her to walk.
“Son,” Emily begged. “Live with us. The city has theatres, schools, opportunities”
“No,” Daniel shook his head. “I wont leave Dad. And Aunt Marthas like a mum now.”
Then came school.
When boys boasted of fathers who were lorry drivers, soldiers, engineersDaniel never faltered.
“My dad?” hed say proudly. “He can fix anything. He understands how the world works. He saved me. Hes my hero.”
A year passed.
Martha and Tim sat by the fire with Daniel.
“Were having a baby,” Martha said. “A little one.”
“Y-you wont send me away?” Daniel whispered.
“Dont be silly!” Martha hugged him. “Youre as much mine as any child could be!”
“Son,” Tim said, watching the flames. “How could you think that? Youre my world.”
Months later, little Oliver was born.
Daniel cradled his brother like treasure.
“I have a sister,” he murmured. “And a brother. And Dad. And Aunt Martha.”
Emily still called for him.
But Daniel always answered:
“Im already home.”
Years passed. People forgot Daniel wasnt blood. The whispers stopped.
And when Daniel became a father himself, he told his children and grandchildren of the best dad in the world.
“He wasnt handsome,” Daniel would say. “But he had more love in him than anyone Ive ever known.”
And every year, on the anniversary of his passing, their house filledMarthas children, Emilys children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.
They drank tea, laughed, remembered.
“Best father any of us couldve had!” the grown-ups would toast. “May there be more like him!”
And always, a finger would point skywardto the stars, to the memory of the man who, against all odds, became a true father.
The only one.
Unforgettable.
