I can hardly believe Im writing this, but the night before NewYears Eve feels like a strange crossroads. All the office folk have already slipped home, yet here I am, still at the office, trying to finish a days work in advance so I wont have to report on the first of January. The fridge at home already holds a couple of salads, a bowl of fruit and a bottle of sparkling water that I prepared earlier. Im not even thinking about dressing up; all I want is to slip out of my heels and into a soft, cosy pyjama.
Andrew and I went our separate ways a few months ago, and the breakup was so bruising that I havent been eager to start anything new. Its easier now, being on my own. Andrew called a few times, trying to win me back, but I told him there was no point in trying to start over we were never a good match, and it would only make things messier. I didnt even want to think about him; its the past, and I refuse to let it spoil the holiday.
I stepped off the minibuss and was only a few paces from my flat. By the front steps, an elderly gentleman was sitting on a bench beside a modest pine tree. I pictured him waiting for a visitor. I nodded a greeting; he gave a slight nod back, eyes fixed on the ground. I thought I saw a glint of tears, or perhaps it was just the streetlights reflecting off his eyes, but I brushed it aside and hurried inside.
The night air was biting, and I shivered as I turned the heating on, slipped into my favourite fluffy nightgown, poured a mug of coffee and moved to the window. Oddly, the old man was still perched on the bench, unmoved. I thought, Hes been here for over an hour now, NewYears only two hours away why is he still out here? And what was that shine in his eyes? I set the table, switched on the fairylights on my own little tree, yet my thoughts kept drifting back to the solitary figure.
Half an hour later I glanced again; he was still there, rigid as a post. I wondered if he was feeling ill the cold could do that. I threw on a coat and stepped out. Sitting beside him, I tried to break the silence.
Excuse me, are you alright? I asked. I noticed youve been sitting here a long time. Its freezing out. Can I help with anything?
He sighed. Nothing, love. Im fine, just having a little sit before I head off to the station. Ill be home soon enough.
Where to?
To the station. Ill catch the early train back. He smiled weakly.
Please, dont stay out here all night. Come inside, warm up a bit first, then you can get on your way.
I
No buts! Come on, lets get you inside.
I knew if my friend Sophie had seen me now, shed roll her eyes, but I couldnt leave the man out there. He rose, and I offered him the tiny pine. Take it, I said. Itll keep you company.
He accepted, and we carried the tree into my flat, setting it carefully in the hallway. He stripped off his coat, his steps slow and shivering. I brewed tea and handed him a cup; he wrapped his hands around the mug, taking slow sips, his eyes flickering with gratitude.
My dear, dont get the wrong idea, he began, his voice a little raspy. Im not homeless. My names Michael Seymour. Ive come to see my daughter. Its… complicated.
He told me how he and my mother had split years ago, how hed fallen for another woman, Louise, and how that affair had torn the family apart. Hed tried to stay involved, but Louise was proud and rejected any help, even refusing child support. She turned our daughter, Emma, against him. One day, after a heated argument, hed slammed the door and left for the woman he loved. Emma was five then.
Michael recounted how hed tried to give Emma presents, only for her to run away, shouting that he was nothing to her. He stopped showing up, moved away with his new partner Martha, tried to send money for Emma, but the funds always bounced back. Ten years later, after Marthas death, he returned to the town, found his parents gone, bought a small cottage in the countryside, but never managed to rebuild a family.
Now, standing in my flat with the old pine and the ticking clock, he confessed hed come to the flat that bears his name, hoping for a sliver of forgiveness. The door had been shut in his face. He felt like a stranger in his own daughters life, a ghost haunting a house that once held his memories.
He sighed, I suppose Im here for a reason, after all. Thank you, dear. Im warmed up now, Ill catch the bus and head home.
A soft voice interrupted, Where will you be at night? The bus wont run until morning, and its half past twelve now. Stay a bit; Ill put a spare blanket on the sofa. You can rest and catch the first train.
Michael looked at me, eyes bright. I feel oddly uncomfortable asking a stranger to stay. Honestly, Id rather not be alone tonight. If youll let me, Ill stay until morning and then leave.
I nodded. Deal.
In the early hours, he gathered his coat, thanked me, Thank you, Iris. Youve been an angel, pulling me back from a foolish decision. If you ever want to visit, my place isnt farjust a few miles out. I have a modest beekeeping setup, five hives behind the house, lovely summer fruit, and a river nearby for a winter walk.
I promised Id come. He left, disappearing around the corner, his silhouette melting into the night. I lingered at the window, watching his figure fade. It struck me how strangers can sometimes become family, and how those we think we know best can still surprise us.
My own parents died when I was young, and hearing Michaels lonely tale made me resolve to visit him soon. Ill post a comment here later, perhaps a like, perhaps a note of thanks. For now, Im closing this diary entry, feeling a strange mix of melancholy and hope as the NewYear bells begin to toll.
