**Diary Entry 12th October**
Another late night back from work, and Im shattered. My cars playing up againstalled twice on the way home, as if it knows its days are numbered. Soon, Ill finally get that shiny new motor Ive been saving for, the one Ive dreamed about for over a decade. I smirked climbing the stairs, picturing myself behind the wheel, cruising through London. That dreams the reason Ive scrimped, skipped holidays, and worked every overtime shift going. The boss appreciates the grind, sure, but they dont exactly reward it. Why would they? They know a bloke like me wont walk away, so bonuses are rare as hens teeth.
I live in a rundown flat on the outskirts of Birmingham, a place I inherited from Grandad. My parents are up in Manchester, and we hardly see each other. Every time we do, its the same lecture»Sort yourself out, settle down, start a family.» As if thats ever been a priority.
The lift was broken again, so I trudged up to the fifth floor, nearly tripping over some drunk slumped outside my door. Flicking on my phone torch, I realised it wasnt a drunkjust a kid, a girl no older than twelve. She startled awake at the light, scrambling to her feet. A photo slipped from her hands. My stomach lurched. It was mea snap from a lads night out years ago. Howd she get that? Most of those mates are long gone; we drifted apart.
«Hello! Im here to see you,» she piped up, voice shaky.
I jangled my keys, pretending not to hear. What was this? Some kind of setup? You hear storieskids used to bait blokes, coppers waiting to pounce. I scanned the hallway. No cameras. No coppers lurking. The whole floors emptyjust abandoned flats since the old tenants passed. The council cant even be bothered to fix the lights.
«I dont know you, and I didnt invite you,» I said, shoving the door open.
«Wait! Ive got nowhere else to go! Youre Dennis Whittaker, right?» Her eyes were wide, scared. Or was it an act?
«Yeah. So?»
«Then its true! Youre my dad! You *have* to help me!»
I barked a laugh. «Pull the other one. Ive got no kids. Clear off before I call the police.»
She didnt budge. «Its too late! Ive got *nothing*! You cant just abandon me!»
I slammed the door but heard muffled sobbing through the wood. Bloody hell. What if she *was* telling the truth? I cracked it open again. «Fine. Come in. Talk. Then well see.»
Over tea and stale digestives (all I had), she spilled it. Her name was Emily. Thirteen years ago, Id had a one-night stand with a woman named Claire at a uni reunion. According to her mums diary, it was «magical»until I kicked her out at dawn. Claire went home, found out she was pregnant, and raised Emily alone. Now Claire was illheart surgery, no NHS slot soon enough, private care costing a fortune. Theyd crowdfunded, but donations had dried up.
My gut twisted. I *did* remember Clairevivid eyes, reckless energy. That night *had* been mad. But a kid? I studied Emily. Then I spotted ita star-shaped birthmark under her ear. *Just like mine.*
I gave her the sofa for the night, stewing over it. That stash under my floorboardsevery penny saved for the carcould cover the surgery. But why *should* I? Claire hid Emily from me. Still that birthmark.
By morning, Id made my choice. I slipped the cash into her rucksack while she slept, drove her to New Street Station, and ignored her tearful rants about me being a «rotten father.»
Three months later, I found Claire and Emily on my doorstep. Claire, alive and glowing, hugged me hard. «Thank you,» she whispered.
Turns out, Emily had found the money. The surgery worked. Now here they weremy accidental family. Claire admitted shed been too scared to tell me back then. And Emily? She *was* mine.
I took a day off (the boss nearly had a fit), whisked them to Alton Towers, and promised to visit Manchester soon. Two months later, I proposed. Properly, this time.
The car? I got it eventuallyafter switching to a better job. But now its *our* car. For road trips. For school runs. For the life I never knew I wanted.
