September 12th
The old man sank onto the cold bench near the abandoned community centre, his frayed gloves trembling in his hands. His gaze darted between strangers’ faces as if searching for someone. Then he saw her—a petite elderly woman with a neat silver bun and a shoulder bag. He stood shakily and called out,
“Mary… Mary Spencer… Wait.”
She halted, squinting until recognition flickered across her face. Her lips tightened. “Well, if it isn’t you. How did you find me, Thompson?”
“I… I wanted to talk. To apologise. To explain.”
“Explain?” Her voice wavered. “After forty years? Did you think I’d forget?”
“I just want her… to know. Even if she never forgives me. I understand. But before I go, I’d like to see my daughter. Just once. So she knows I existed.”
Mary clenched her fists. “I never told her who her father was. To her, you’re a stranger. Don’t expect kindness.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow. If she comes… I’ll wait.”
Once, James Thompson had been the pride of the factory town near Derby—tall, quick-witted, with a roguish grin. He’d courted young Mary with flowers, waited by the gates, spun tales of admirers to make her jealous. She’d resisted, then relented.
Then, abruptly, he vanished. Months later, she heard the truth: he’d married the pub owner’s daughter. A secure future, a flat handed to him. Convenient. Mary carried the shame alone, realising too late she carried his child.
She never spoke of him. Raised her daughter, Lucy, with quiet strength. No pleas, no blame. Meanwhile, James’ life soured. His wife couldn’t conceive. Their home grew heavy with silence. He wandered streets, searching children’s faces for traces of himself. A slip from an old friend confirmed it—Lucy was his.
Years passed. Lucy married, had a daughter. He wasn’t invited. Anger faded into self-reproach.
The next day, Mary returned. Beside her stood a woman in her thirties—composed, upright. Lucy.
James sprang up, eyes bright. “Lucy… I’m your father. I don’t deserve your time, but… thank you for coming.”
She studied him, weary but calm. No hatred. Just caution. They walked to her house.
The flat was warm, photos lining the walls, the scent of apple crumble in the air. James perched on a chair, babbling to fill the silence. Lucy watched him like a shadow finally stepping into light.
“If you ever need help—medicine, anything—just ask,” she said suddenly.
“No… thank you.” He looked away. “I never gave you a penny. Never helped.”
A little girl—his granddaughter—appeared. Lucy murmured, “This is your granddad. James.”
The child mumbled hello, then scurried to Mary. They left for a walk. Alone again, James offered his cottage in the Cotswolds. Lucy declined gently. “We’re happy here.”
He understood. Thanked her for the tea, asked for a photo. On the drive back to his village, he clutched the picture, silent. Only in his crumbling cottage did he turn it over.
Scrawled on the back: *”For Dad. From Lucy.”*
Perhaps forgiveness had begun. But time, he realised, was already running out.
