**Diary Entry**
The old man sank heavily onto the cold bench in the square near the abandoned pub. His trembling hands clutched a pair of worn-out gloves, and his restless eyes darted over the faces of passersby, as if searching for someone. A petite elderly woman walked past, her silver hair tied neatly in a bun, a handbag slung over her shoulder. When he spotted her, the old man rose slightly and called out softly:
“Mary… Mary Whitaker… Wait, please.”
She halted, squinted, then pressed her lips together as she recognized the familiar lines in the face of a man who had once been tall, confident, and striking.
“What on earth are you doing here, Baxter?”
“I… I wanted to talk. To ask for forgiveness. To explain.”
“Explain?” Mary’s voice wavered. “After forty years? Did you think I’d forgotten?”
“I just wanted—her—to hear it. Even if she never forgives me. I know what I did. But before I go, I wanted her to know she had a father. That I existed.”
Mary fell silent, then clenched her fists and whispered, “I never told her who you were. To her, you’re a stranger. Don’t expect anything.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow. If she decides to come… I’ll wait.”
Once, William Baxter had been the pride of the factory town near Manchester—handsome, charming, with twinkling eyes and a roguish smile. He’d courted young Mary with grand gestures—flowers, waiting by the factory gates, spinning tales of other girls to stir her jealousy. She’d resisted, but eventually, she’d loved him.
Then, suddenly, it all crumbled. William vanished. Months later, Mary learned the truth—he’d married. The daughter of a local innkeeper. Wealthy, with a house from her father, a secure future. Convenient. Mary was left alone. And soon, she knew—she carried his child.
She told no one. She bore her daughter, Grace, and carried on, never asking for help, never blaming, just surviving. William never returned, never asked.
His own life soured. His wife was barren. Sickly. Their home filled with silence and stale air. He wandered streets, watching children, searching for familiar features. Eventually, an old acquaintance let slip—Grace was his.
Years passed. Grace grew up, married, had a daughter of her own. William wasn’t invited to the wedding. He’d tried to wallow in anger, to blame others, but in the end, he knew—he’d done this to himself.
The next day, Mary returned. Not alone. Beside her walked a striking woman in her thirties—Grace.
William stood up, suddenly younger by a decade, eyes shining. He stepped forward hesitantly.
“Grace… I—I’m your father. I don’t deserve to be here, but… thank you for coming.”
Grace watched him calmly. No hatred in her gaze—just weariness, caution. They went to her home.
The flat was warm, light. Photographs lined the walls; the air smelled of apple pie. William perched on the edge of a chair, sipping tea, rambling to fill the silence. Grace studied him like a shadow she’d known all her life.
“If you need anything—help, medicine—just say so,” she offered.
“No… thank you.” He looked away. “I never gave you anything. Not even a pound.”
A little girl appeared—his granddaughter. Grace introduced her.
“This is your granddad. William.”
The child murmured something and scampered off with Mary, leaving them alone.
“I… I want to leave you my cottage. It’s small, but sturdy.”
“Thank you, but we don’t need it,” Grace said gently. “We’re happy here.”
William understood. He rose, thanked her for the tea, asked for a photograph. Then he left. Grace’s husband offered him a lift. The entire ride, William clutched the picture in silence, tears streaming.
Back in his crumbling cottage near Shrewsbury, he turned the photo over. On the back, in Grace’s hand, it read:
“To Dad. Love, Grace.”
Only then did he realize—perhaps forgiveness had already begun. But time to feel it was running short.
