Victor Clarke was fiftytwo, a man whose prime should still be on his side. Hed spent years climbing the corporate ladder at a respectable firm in Manchester, earning a solid salary in pounds and keeping a steady circle of mates, one of whom hed known since school. The only thing that never materialised was a family of his own.
In his younger days Victor flitted from one romance to the next, relishing the attention his good looks and charm drew. By the time he hit forty, the thrill of the chase began to wear thin. He met Eleanor, a brighteyed woman who seemed to promise something real, and they spent two years together, even drafting wedding plans. Then, without warning, she left him for another man.
Victor blamed fate, muttering that karma was catching up. Hed abandoned countless lovely girls over the years, and now the ledger felt settled. After that, only fleeting liaisons brushed his lifequick drinks, brief affairs that dissolved as fast as they began.
At fifty, he accepted the fact that marriage and children were unlikely. He halfjoked that if an elderly woman ever wanted to share quiet evenings, hed be glad, but otherwise hed face the twilight alone.
His relatives were gone. His parents had passed, and he had no siblings. A distant cousin, Margaret, and her son, Tom, were the only blood ties, and contact was sparse. All of Victors old friends were now married, with families and grandchildren, and they preferred evenings with spouses and kids over the old boys night out. They still invited him, but he felt a growing loneliness that age seemed to amplify.
He didnt want to become that grumpy old bloke who talks to the telly, walks his dog in the park, and mutters about the younger generation. Yet the vision haunted him, and he resigned himself to the possibility.
Still, Victor didnt give up. He kept meeting women, hoping one might be the one. He still saw his mates, sharing their stories as if they were his own, and occasionally visited Margaret and Tom. It seemed nothing would ever shift dramatically.
One lazy Saturday, while packing for a weekend countryside trek with the lads, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, saw an unknown number, and, assuming it was a mate, answered without looking.
Yeah, he said, shoving a jacket into his rucksack, his shoulder pressed against the handset.
Good afternoon, Victor? a voice asked.
He thought it was another sales call, dismissed it, and hung up, citing his perpetual tardiness. He told himself he was simply helping his friends wives with the plans, not that anything else was amiss.
The phone rang again. This time he stared at the screen, the unfamiliar digits glaring back.
Im not interested in your loans or whatever youre selling! he barked.
A soft, lilting female voice cut through his irritation.
Victor, Im not calling about a advertisement, she said.
He sank onto the sofa, bewildered. What?
My names Poppy. Im twentytwo, and I think Im your daughter.
He could have sworn it was a prank. Right, and whats the catch?
Poppys breath trembled. My mothers name was Helen Clarke. Helen Clarke.
Victors mind leapt to a faded photograph of a carefree young woman, his own twentysomething self, the city lights of Manchester in the background. Hed been thirty then, charming, promoted to a shortterm assignment in Leeds, the evenings free for a pint.
After a long day at work, Victor drifted into a nearby bar. Two women, laughing over wine, occupied the highback stools beside him. They were younger, but that didnt bother him; he still felt a spring in his step.
He joined their conversation. One of them, Sophie, soon excused herself to meet her boyfriend. The other, Helen, a graduate of the local college, lingered. The three of them slipped out into the night, wandering the lit streets as if theyd known each other forever, their banter easy and warm.
Victor lost track of time, and before he knew it, he was standing on the doorstep of Helens modest flat, sharing a cramped living space with her friends lingering belongings. He spent three days in that town, three nights beside Helen, until her boyfriend returned and she saw him off at the train station when his assignment ended. He offered his number; she declined.
Its hopeless for us, she whispered.
Victor nodded, giving her his surname in case she ever wanted to find him. Within a month, his thoughts of Helen faded, replaced by the excitement of a new fling. He was, as ever, a restless heart.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Victor, are you there? a voice asked, pulling him back to reality.
Yes, whos this?
Why did you say I was your daughter? he asked, confused.
My mother told me, the voice answered, tears edging the words. She died three weeks ago from cancer. She only told me my fathers name at the end, showed me a photo you once took, the one she kept printed. Its been twentyplus years, but I found you on social media, then your number.
Victor fell silent. The weight of the revelation pressed heavy on his chest.
Why didnt she tell me about you? he whispered.
She said you werent ready for a family. She didnt want to tie you down, Poppy replied, her voice trembling. Now Im alone. I know you probably have a life, a family Im not trying to intrude. I just
Poppy, Victor interrupted, his tone softening, lets meet. I need to see you.
Yes, she breathed, relief flickering through her.
Victor cancelled the weekend trip. The news hit him like a storm; he couldnt quite name the feeling, but he knew he wanted to meet his daughter.
When they finally sat opposite each other in a quiet café, Poppy clutched a photo of her mother and a crumpled birth certificate.
Im not a scam, she said, eyes earnest.
Im no millionaire, so Im not a target for scammers, Victor chuckled, his smile waning. I believe you. I remember your mother.
They talked for hours. Poppy spoke of her childhood, her mothers shortlived marriage, a stepfather she never saw, and the solitary path that led her to search for her father. Victor felt a pang of regret.
Im sorry I never knew you, he said, shaking his head. I would have liked to watch you grow. My own marriage never worked out, no children until now. It seems I do have a daughter after all.
The conversation stretched three hours, ending with a promise to meet again.
That night Victor lay awake, a mix of sorrow and anger roiling inside him. He mourned the lost years, the moments hed missed, yet a spark of hope glimmered. He could finally be part of Poppys life.
At their next meeting, Victor learned that Poppy had inherited her mothers flat in Liverpool, but shed moved to Manchester, the city where he lived, to be nearer to him. The rent was steep, so she sublet the old flat while renting a modest room here.
Victor offered her a place in his own house, a chance to save and eventually buy something proper. He began buying her flowers, organizing small celebrations, introducing her to his old mates, even mentioning a distant cousin, Tom, as a brotherinlaw figure.
Six months later, Poppy called him Dad for the first time. Victor stepped onto his balcony, pretending to make a call, but his eyes filled with tears as the night air whispered around him.
Two years after that, Poppy married a kind man from Leeds. When their child was born, Victors heart burst with a fierce protectiveness. He threw himself into catching up on the lost years, attending school plays, helping with homework, and delighting in the giggles of his grandson.
Now, Victor no longer felt the hollow ache of solitude. He had a partner, Margaret, with whom he planned to grow old, a daughter, a soninlaw, and a grandchild. He finally understood that he had been on the brink of losing the very thing called family, only to have it slip back into his arms at last.
