Dennis was trudging home late again, his old Ford sputtering like a dying beast as it coughed and stalled along the rain-slicked streets of Manchester. The car had a sixth sense, he reckonedknew its days were numbered now that he was finally close to buying that gleaming new Vauxhall hed dreamed of for a decade. He grinned, climbing the dimly lit stairwell of his flat, imagining the purr of the engine beneath him as hed cruise through the city. That dream had kept him going, sweating through overtime shifts, skipping holidays, pinching every penny. His boss praised his dedication but never handed out bonuseswhy bother, when a loyal mule would keep plodding?
The flat was his grandfathers legacy, a cramped little box on the outskirts where the buses stopped running after dusk. His parents lived up in Leeds, and their rare visits always ended the same way: *When are you settling down, lad?* As if a wife and kids were just items on a checklist. Tonight, though, the fifth-floor landing held a strangera hunched figure slumped by his door. Dennis flicked on his phone torch, expecting some drunk, but the light revealed a girl, no older than twelve, jerking awake like a startled deer. A photo fluttered from her grip*him*, grinning with mates after some rowdy student night years back. Whered she get that? Most of those lads were ghosts now, friendships faded like last years tan.
“Hello,” she squeaked. “Im here for you.”
Dennis jangled his keys, pretending not to hear. Kids were landmines these daysone wrong move, and youre branded a monster. He scanned the hallway for cameras. None. Just peeling wallpaper and the perpetual stink of damp. The other flats stood empty, relics of pensioners long gone, their kids unwilling to deal with the dump.
“I didnt invite guests,” he muttered, shoving the door open.
“Wait! Ive nowhere else!” She scrambled up, voice wavering. “Youre Dennis Whitmore, yeah?”
He stiffened. “Suppose I am. What of it?”
“Then its true.” Her chin trembled. “Youre my dad.”
A bark of laughter escaped him. *Absurd.* Hed never fathered a childnever wanted to. Yet his gaze snagged on the birthmark behind her ear: a tiny crimson star. *His* mark. Same as his fathers, his grandfathers. Blood roared in his ears.
“Clear off before I call the cops,” he lied, slamming the door.
Her voice slipped through the gap: “Mums dying! She needs surgeryweve no one else!”
Dennis paced his kitchen, stewing in cheap instant broth. The girl*Emily*, shed saidspun a tale of a one-night stand at a uni bash thirteen years back. Some lass named Charlotte, whod left before dawn and never told him about the baby. Now Charlottes heart was failing, and this kid had trekked across bloody England to shake him down. He found the fundraiser online£50,000 goal, barely a dent made. People cared more about sick puppies than single mums.
By midnight, hed pried open the hidey-hole in his wardrobe. The cash inside smelled like new leather, like the Vauxhalls showroom shine. But what was it *for*? To impress birds? He was forty-two, for Christs sake. The dream felt hollow now, dwarfed by the girl sobbing on his sofa.
At dawn, he stuffed the money into her rucksack, tucked beside that damning photo. Let her find it. Let it be *her* choice.
Three months later, the stairwell light was dead again. This time, two figures waitedEmily, beaming, and a woman with tired eyes. Charlotte. Alive.
“You came back,” he croaked.
Emily barrelled into him. “You saved Mum!”
Over tea, Charlotte confessed: shed been terrified all those years ago, certain hed bolt. And he had. Now, though, Dennis took a week off work (his boss spluttered, then caved) and whisked them to Blackpoolroller coasters, candyfloss, Emilys laughter ringing louder than any engine.
That winter, he traded the Ford for a modest Vauxhallroomier, for family trips. And when he introduced Charlotte and Emily to his parents in Leeds, his mother wept into her handkerchief. “About time you got your head straight,” his dad grunted, ruffling Emilys hair.
The dream car sat in the drive, keys glinting. But Dennis barely glanced at it. He was too busy teaching Emily how to change a tyre.
