**Diary Entry: Too Late for “Sorry”**
The old man slumped onto the cold bench in the park near the derelict community hall. His hands trembled around tattered gloves, eyes darting between passersby as if searching for someone. A petite elderly woman with a neat grey bun and a shoulder bag walked past. Spotting her, he rose slightly and called out softly—
“Mary… Mary Nicholson… Wait.”
She halted, squinted, and after recognising the familiar features beneath the wrinkles of a once-strapping, confident man, pursed her lips—
“What on earth. How are you here, Watson?”
“I… I wanted to talk. To apologise. To explain.”
“Explain?” Mary’s voice wavered. “After forty years? Did you think my memory was that short? That I’d forgotten?”
“I just want you… want *her*… to hear me. Even if she doesn’t forgive me. I understand. But before I go, I’d like just once to see my daughter. So she knows she had a father. That I exist.”
Mary fell silent. Then, fists clenched, she whispered—
“I never told her who her father was. To her, you’re nobody. Just know—her reaction could be anything.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow. If she decides to come… I’ll wait.”
Once, John Watson had been the catch of their factory town near Leeds. Tall, bright-eyed, with a roguish smile, he’d wooed young Mary grandly—waiting at her gate, bringing flowers, spinning tales of “factory girls lining up for him” just to stir her jealousy. She’d held back, but yielded—and loved him.
Then it shattered. John vanished. Months later, Mary learned—he’d married. The daughter of a local pub owner. Wealthy, with a house from her father, a secure future. *Convenient*. Mary was left alone. Soon after, she realised she was carrying his child.
She told no one. Gave birth to a daughter—Emily—and carried on. The father never came. Never asked. She bore motherhood with quiet pride, never begging, never demeaning herself, just surviving.
John’s life turned hollow. His wife was barren. Ill. The house was thick with silence. He wandered streets, eyeing children for familiar traces. An old acquaintance slipped, and John knew—Emily was his.
Years passed. Emily grew, married, had a daughter. He wasn’t invited to the wedding. He’d rage, blame others, but always ended alone—his own executioner.
The next day, Mary returned. This time, not alone. Beside her walked a poised woman in her thirties—Emily.
John sprang up as if youth had returned. Eyes shining, he approached—
“Emily… I… I’m your father. I’m sorry. I don’t deserve to stand here, but… thank you for coming.”
Emily said nothing. Studied him. No hatred—just weariness, caution. They walked to her home.
The flat was bright, warm. Photos lined the walls, the air sweet with apple pie. John perched on a chair’s edge, sipped tea, rambling to mask discomfort. Emily watched him like someone she’d only ever known as a shadow.
“If you ever need anything… help, medicine,” she suddenly offered.
“No… thank you,” he murmured, glancing away. “I never helped. Not even a penny.”
A little girl appeared—his granddaughter. Emily introduced them—
“This is your granddaughter. Grandad John.”
The child mumbled something, then scampered off with Mary for a walk. They were alone again.
“I… want to leave you my cottage. In the countryside. Small, but sturdy.”
“Thank you, but we’re fine here,” Emily said gently. “Don’t take it badly, but we don’t need it.”
John understood. He stood, thanked her for the tea, asked for his granddaughter’s photo, and left. Emily’s husband offered a lift to the village. The whole ride, John sat silent, clutching the photo. Crying.
Back in his weathered cottage near Stratford, he opened his palm. On the photo’s back was scrawled—
*”To Dad. From Emily.”*
Only then did he realise forgiveness might have begun. But time to feel it—that, he had little left.
