**Diary Entry – 12th November**
The old man sank onto the cold bench in the park near the derelict pub, his worn gloves trembling in his hands. His eyes darted between passers-by, searching for someone. Then he spotted her—a petite elderly woman, silver hair neatly pinned back, a handbag slung over her shoulder. He stood shakily and called out:
“Mary… Mary Nicholson… Wait.”
She halted, squinting, and as recognition flickered in her eyes, her lips tightened. “Good Lord. What are you doing here, Wilson?”
“I… I wanted to talk. To apologise. To explain.”
“Explain?” Her voice wavered. “After forty years? Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“I just want her… our daughter… to know. Even if she doesn’t forgive me. I understand. But before I’m gone, I’d like to see her—just once—so she knows she had a father.”
Mary fell silent, fists clenched. Then she whispered, “I never told her who you were. To her, you’re nobody. But fine. Just know—she might not react how you’d hope.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow. If she comes… I’ll wait.”
Back in the day, John Wilson had been the catch of the factory town near Nottingham. Tall, with bright eyes and a roguish grin, he’d wooed young Mary with flowers, jealous tales of “mill girls lining up for him.” She’d resisted at first but fell for him all the same.
Then everything shattered. John vanished. Months later, word reached Mary—he’d married. The daughter of a local pub owner, a girl with a house inherited from her father, a secure future. Convenient. Mary was left alone—soon realising she carried his child.
She never spoke his name. She bore her daughter, Emily, and raised her with quiet strength, never begging for help, never crumbling.
John’s life turned bitter. His wife couldn’t have children. Illness filled their home with silence. He wandered streets, scanning children’s faces for traces of himself. Then an old friend slipped—revealing Emily was his.
Years passed. Emily grew up, married, had a daughter. John wasn’t invited to the wedding. Anger simmered, but always faded. He was his own judge.
The next day, Mary returned—not alone. Beside her stood a poised woman in her thirties: Emily.
John sprang up, suddenly younger. Eyes gleaming, he approached. “Emily… I’m your father. I don’t deserve to stand here, but… thank you for coming.”
Emily studied him. No hatred—just weariness, wariness. She took him home.
The flat was warm, sunlight catching framed photos, the scent of apple pie in the air. John perched on the edge of a chair, sipping tea, filling silence with clumsy words. Emily watched him like a stranger she’d only ever glimpsed in shadows.
“If you need anything—medicine, help—just say,” she offered.
“No… thank you,” he murmured. “I never gave you a penny. Never helped.”
A little girl appeared—his granddaughter. “This is your granddad,” Emily introduced.
The child mumbled something before darting off with Mary. Alone again, John blurted, “I want to leave you my house. In Devon. Small, but solid.”
“Thank you, but we don’t need it,” Emily replied gently.
He understood. After tea, he asked for a photo of his granddaughter. Then he left. Emily’s husband drove him back to Devon. The whole way, John clutched the photo, silent, weeping.
At home—a worn cottage near Dartmoor—he turned the photo over. Scrawled on the back:
*For Dad. Love, Emily.*
And only then did he realise forgiveness might’ve begun. But time to feel it was running out.
**Lesson learned: Regret is a cruel companion. It walks beside you long after the road’s end.**
