**Wednesday, 18th June**
He called again. “Don’t you dare ring me!” I snapped, slamming the receiver onto the cradle of that old rotary phone. My hands trembled, heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I sank onto the kitchen stool, breathless.
Emma peered from her room. “Mum? What’s happened?”
“No one,” I rasped. “Just a wrong number.”
She drew closer, eyes narrowing at my pallor. “You’re shaking! Tell me.”
“Your father,” I whispered. “After twenty-five years… Wants to meet. Says he’s ill. Regrets everything.”
“*Dad* called?” She took my hand, her touch tense. “What did he want?”
“Forgiveness. To visit. Claims the doctors…” I swallowed a knot of tears. “Too late, Emmie. Years too late.”
She pressed, voice soft. “Tell me properly, Mum. I was only seven. I barely remember him leaving.”
I stood, facing the window. Rain wept down the panes outside. “You asked for him every day. I lied—said he was on business. Truth was, I didn’t know where he’d gone.”
“Just vanished?”
“Worse,” I bit out. “He betrayed us. Another family. Another wife. *Other children*. He chose them.”
Emma fell silent, absorbing it. Thirty-two now, but her memories of him were fogged, like a half-forgotten dream.
“He swore he loved us,” I continued. “Came home nightly, read you stories. Then I found out—another daughter, three years older. A wife who thought *she* was the only one. Didn’t even know we existed.”
“Good grief, Mum… How?”
“Foolish accident. He fell ill. I went to the hospital, saw a woman and girl there. The child shouted *Daddy!* as he hugged her. His face went sheet-white when he spotted me. That woman—Louise—asked, *Who’s that, Victor?* He just… froze.”
“What then?”
“Short and ugly. Louise said they’d been married eight years, owned a flat together, had his name on the birth certificate. Me? I’d been his silly little secret. No marriage, because *paperwork’s rubbish*, he’d said. Only love mattered. Your surname was his, but I had no legal claim.”
Emma wrapped her arms around me. “Why never tell me before?”
“Why burden you? Your childhood was hard enough—me working two jobs, you ill half the time. Then you built your own life, married… Why dredge up pain?”
“Did he try to reach out?”
“For a while. Loomed outside the flat. Posted money. I sent it back. Too proud. Thought I could raise you alone.”
“And now?”
“Now? Calls all week. Louise died, his daughter’s grown, he’s alone. Wants to meet our grandchildren.”
Emma pulled away, thoughtful. “Shouldn’t we hear him out
I turned back to the window, watching a young mother push a pram along the pavement where the old birch trees used to stand, knowing some silences outlast even apologies.
