An old man sank wearily onto a cold bench in the park near an abandoned hall. His trembling hands clutched threadbare gloves, and his eyes darted across the faces of passersby, as if searching for someone. A petite elderly woman with a neat bun of silver hair and a shoulder bag walked past. When he saw her, the old man rose slightly and whispered:
“Mary… Mary Nicholson… Wait a moment.”
The woman paused, squinted, and as she recognized the familiar features beneath the wrinkles of what was once a tall, confident man, her lips tightened.
“Well, this is a surprise. What are you doing here, Watson?”
“I… I wanted to talk. To ask for your forgiveness. To explain.”
“Explain?” Mary’s voice wavered. “After forty years? Did you think my memory was short? That I’d forgotten?”
“I just want you… I want her… to hear me. Even if she doesn’t forgive. I understand. But before I die, I’d like to see my daughter just once. So she knows she had a father. That I existed.”
Mary fell silent. Then, clenching her fists, she whispered:
“I never once told her who her father was. To her, you’re nobody. But be warned—her reaction could be anything.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow. If she decides to come… I’ll wait.”
Once, John Watson had been the brightest spark among the lads in the factory town near Nottingham. Tall, with lively eyes and a roguish grin, he had courted young Mary in fine style—waiting for her at the gates, bringing flowers, stoking her jealousy with tales of “mill girls lined up three deep.” She’d held back, but in the end, she’d given in—and loved him.
Then it all shattered. John vanished. Months later, Mary heard the reason—he’d married. The daughter of a local publican. Wealthy, with a house from her father, a secure future. Convenient. Mary was left alone—and soon realized she was carrying a child.
She told no one. She bore the girl—Nell—and carried on. Her daughter’s father never came. Never asked. And Mary bore her motherhood with pride, never accusing, never pleading, simply enduring.
John’s life fared worse. His wife was barren. Ill. The house filled with silence and thick air. He wandered the streets, catching glimpses of children, searching for familiar traces. An old acquaintance let slip the truth, and John understood—Nell was his.
But the years passed. Nell grew, married, had a daughter. Her father was not invited to the wedding. He tried anger, blame, but in the end, he was left alone—his own executioner.
The next day, Mary Nicholson returned—not alone. Beside her walked a woman in her thirties, poised and steady, with straight shoulders. Nell.
John leapt up as though renewed by ten years. His eyes gleamed. He stepped forward, hesitant.
“Nell… I… I’m your father. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve even to stand here, but… thank you for coming.”
Nell said nothing. Only studied him. There was no hatred in her gaze—just weariness, caution. They walked to her home.
The flat was warm, bright. Photographs lined the walls, and the scent of apple pie lingered. John sat stiffly, sipping tea, filling the silence with awkward words. And Nell watched him like a shadow she’d always known was there.
“If you need anything… help, medicine,” she said suddenly, “just say.”
“No… thank you,” he looked away. “I never once helped in all these years. Not even a shilling.”
A little girl appeared—his granddaughter. Nell spoke softly.
“This is your granddaughter. Grandfather John.”
The child murmured something, then fled to her grandmother, and they stepped out for a walk. Alone again.
“I… I want to leave you my cottage. It’s small but sturdy.”
“Thank you, but we don’t need it,” Nell replied calmly. “Don’t be offended. There’s no use for it.”
John understood. He rose, thanked her for the tea, asked for a photograph of the girl. And left. Nell’s husband offered him a ride back to the village. The whole way, John sat silent, clutching the picture. And wept.
When he returned to his old cottage near the fens, he turned the photo over. On the back, faintly written:
“To Dad. From Nell.”
Only then did he realize—perhaps forgiveness had already begun. But time to feel it? That, he had little left.
