Denis trudged home late again, the old Ford sputtering like a dying beast beneath him. It was tiredjust like him. But soon, hed finally trade this rustbucket for the sleek Jaguar hed been dreaming of for a decade. He grinned, climbing the dimly lit stairs of his council flat, imagining the purr of a brand-new engine beneath his fingers. That dream had kept him goingskipping holidays, taking every overtime shift, living off microwave meals just to shove another fifty quid into his savings. His boss at the warehouse knew hed never say no, so bonuses were as rare as sunshine in Manchester.
The flat was his granddads legacya cramped shoebox on the outskirts of Leeds where the buses stopped running after eight. His parents lived up in Newcastle, and their rare visits always ended the same: When are you settling down, son? Youre not getting any younger. As if a wife and kids were some checklist item, not a life.
The lift was busted again. On the fifth-floor landing, his phone torch caught a huddled shape by his doorsome drunk, he thought, until the light jolted them awake. A girl. Twelve, maybe. She scrambled up, clutching a backpack, and something fluttered from her gripa photo. *His* photo. Him, grinning with mates after some uni lads night out years ago. How the hell did she
H-hullo, she stammered. Im here for you.
Denis jammed his key in the lock, pretending not to hear. Scam? Setup? Plenty of stories about blokes getting stitched up by kids these days. He swept the torch aroundno cameras, just peeling wallpaper and the lingering stink of neglect. The whole floor was emptyold tenants dead, their kids not bothering to sell.
Piss off. I didnt invite you.
She didnt move. Youre Denis Whitmore, right?
Yeah. And?
Then its true. Her chin trembled. Youre my dad.
He barked a laugh. Bollocks. Never had kids, never wanted em.
Mum said youd say that. Her voice cracked. Ive nowhere else to go.
Denis slammed the door. Through the wood, her muffled sobs sounded too old for a kid. Christ. He paced, then yanked it open again. Fine. Talk. Then youre gone.
Inside, she clutched a chipped mug of tea. Mums names Emily. You met at a student union party in Sheffield. She was performingsinging. Said you were A blush. Well. She wrote about it in her diary. One night. Then you kicked her out after.
Deniss stomach lurched. Thirteen years agoEmily, with those laugh-lined eyes. Hed brought her back here, a first and last time. Panicked when shed asked if he fancied her. Sent her packing with twenty quid for a taxi.
She got sick, the girlLilywhispered. Heart thing. Needs surgery. Weve got no one. I thought if you helped, Id pay you back. Wash cars, anything
Denis stormed to his bedroom, wrenched open the floorboard hiding his Jag fund. The crisp scent of new leatherhis bosss latest Audihaunted him. Why *did* he want it? To impress birds? He was forty-two, for Christs sake.
Lilys birthmark caught the lighta red star under her ear. Same as his. Same as his dads.
Next morning, he stuffed the cash in her backpack while she slept. Drove her to the station in silence, her calling him every name under the sun.
Three months later, the stairwell light was out again. This time, Emily stood therealive, glowingwith Lily grinning behind her.
You daft sod, Emily murmured, pressing a pastry box into his hands. You couldve just called.
Lily barrelled into him. Dad!
The word cracked something open. That night, hed chosen this*them*over a car he didnt need. Over a life that was just empty miles.
He took them to Blackpool the next dayrollercoasters, candyfloss, Emilys hand warm in his.
And the Jaguar? He got it eventually. But only after Emily and Lily helped pick it out.
