**Diary Entry 12th September**
Another late return from work, another evening where exhaustion clings like a second skin. The carold faithfulsputtered and stalled three times on the drive home, as if sensing its days were numbered. Soon, Id trade it in for the sleek BMW Ive dreamed of for over a decade. The thought made me smile as I climbed the dimly lit stairsfive flights, thanks to the lift being out of orderimagining the purr of a new engine beneath my fingers. That dreams kept me going, grinding through overtime, skipping holidays, pocketing every extra pound. Promotion or not, the bosses knew I wouldnt quit. Loyaltys a double-edged sword.
The flats in Croydon, a relic from my grandfather. Mum and Dad live up in Manchester, and we rarely meet. Every visits the same lecture: *”Grow up, Oliver. Settle down. Family should be your priority.”* As if a wife and kids were the only measure of a life well-lived.
Tonight, though, the universe had other plans.
I nearly tripped over a figure slumped outside my doorsome drunk, I assumed, until my phones torchlight revealed a girl. Twelve, maybe thirteen, hugging a backpack like a lifeline. She startled awake, eyes wide, and a photo fluttered from her grip. Me. From a raucous uni reunion, years ago. Before I drifted from most of those friends.
“Hello,” she squeaked. “IIve come to see you.”
Keys in hand, I considered pretending I hadnt heard. Londons full of scams, and a kid on your doorstep? Perfect bait. But the hallway was emptyno cameras, no coppers lurking. Just peeling wallpaper and the hum of a broken fridge down the hall.
“I dont know you,” I said, stepping inside.
“Wait! Ive nowhere else to go! Youre Oliver Hartley, right?”
“I am. And?”
“Then its true.” Her chin trembled. “Youre my dad.”
I laughedsharp, disbelieving. Father? Impossible. Id have remembered a child. But as she babbledher mums name, *Emily*, a one-night stand after graduationmy stomach twisted. Thirteen years ago. The timeline fit. And then I saw it: a star-shaped birthmark under her ear. Identical to mine.
Still, I shut the door.
She slept on the sofa. I paced, scrolling through a crowdfunding page for Emilys heart surgery*£50,000 needed*, donations stagnant. By dawn, Id emptied my BMW fund into her bag, tucked between a spare jumper and that damned photo.
Three months later, they stood on my doorstep againEmily, alive, and Lucy (not *Masha*, not anymore), grinning like Id hung the moon.
“Thank you,” Emily whispered.
The money didnt matter. The car didnt matter. What gnawed at me was the *what if*. What if I hadnt shoved Emily out that morning years ago? What if Id known?
Were trying, now. Slow steps. Weekends in the park, Sunday roasts, a DNA test (positive, obviously). Last week, I took them to meet my parents in Manchester. Mum cried. Dad clapped me on the back like Id finally passed some unspoken test.
And the BMW? I bought it last monthafter switching jobs, after realising dreams change. Now its Lucys school run, Emilys hospital appointments, weekend drives to the coast.
Funny, isnt it? How the things we chase sometimes matter less than the things weve already got.
