31March2025
Im Victor Hartley, fiftytwo now, still in the bloom of what they call middle age. I have a respectable post at a regional council in Birmingham and a decent circle of mates, one of whom Ive known since we were lads on the playground. The only thing missing from my life is a family of my own.
In my younger days I was a serial dater, flitting from one barroom romance to the next. It suited me I was good-looking, I was popular, and the thrill of a new face kept me entertained. By the time I hit forty, the endless nights began to feel like a sprint toward a finish line I couldnt see.
Then, just as I was settling into a more measured rhythm, I met Eleanor. We spent two solid years together, even talked about tying the knot. I thought the future finally had a shape. One rainy evening she vanished, chasing after another man. I blamed fate, telling myself it was karma catching up after all the women Id brushed aside over the years.
I never managed another longterm relationship after that. Occasionally a flirt would pop up at the pub, a brief dalliance here, a weekend fling there, but nothing ever stuck. By the time I turned fifty I had resigned myself to a solitary existence, hoping that perhaps an unexpected companion might appear in my twilight years. If not, I would simply carry on alone.
Family, too, had thinned. My parents are gone, I have no siblings, and the only relatives left are a thirdcousin and her son, a teenager I see only at occasional family gatherings. Most of my old friends are married with children and now grandchildren; they prefer evenings at home with their kin rather than a night out with the lads. They still call when they need a hand, but the calls feel more like polite obligation than genuine companionship. I find myself thinking more often about growing old, about becoming the grumpy old bloke who talks to the telly, walks his dog in the park and mutters about kids these days.
Still, I keep trying. I meet women, I keep the occasional coffee with old mates, I visit my cousin now and then. Nothing seems to shift the course of my life.
One Saturday, while packing a bag for a countryside hike with the boys, the phone rang. I grabbed it without looking, assuming it was one of the gang.
Hello? I said, trying to shift my jacket onto the sack.
The voice on the other end was flat, Good afternoon, Victor?
I thought it was another sales call and was about to hang up. The call came again, and this time I looked at the screen and saw an unfamiliar number.
Not interested in any credit offers! I snapped.
A soft female voice replied, Victor, Im not calling about a product.
I sat down, bewildered. Who is this?
My name is Ivy. Im twentytwo. I think Im your daughter.
My heart stuttered. What are you on about?
My mothers name is Margaret Hartley. She told me you were my father.
For a fleeting second my mind darted back to my thirties the reckless, carefree chap who used to jet off on work trips to Manchester and return late at night. After a long day at the office, I used to unwind at the local pub, The Crown, where two younger women often chatted over pints. One of them, named Laura, left early to meet her boyfriend; the other, Margaret, stayed. We talked, laughed, and later stepped out into the night, wandering the streets of Birmingham as if wed known each other forever. The next morning I was back at work, and the whole episode faded into a blur.
Three days later, after a short business assignment in Coventry, Margaret invited me to a small flat she shared with her friend. The night ended with us parting on the platform as my train pulled away. I offered my number, but she shook her head.
Theres no future for us, she said, and I believed her.
I told her my surname, just in case she ever needed it. A month later, with nothing else on my mind, I was drawn back into that memory when my phone buzzed.
Victor, are you there? a voice asked, pulling me back to the present.
Yes, Im here. Why do you think youre my daughter? I asked, weary.
My mother passed away a month ago, she whispered. Cancer. She left me a photo of you, taken years ago, and a note with your name and address. I found you on a social network, then your number.
The words hit me like a cold splash of rain. I sat in stunned silence, trying to grasp the reality of a daughter I never knew existed.
Why didnt she tell me? I asked quietly.
She thought you werent ready for a family, Ivy replied. She didnt want to tie you down. Now Im alone. I dont expect anything from you, but I needed to know.
Lets meet, I said, surprising myself. I need to see you.
She agreed, and I cancelled the hike. The news was a bolt from the blue, and I couldnt shake the mix of curiosity, disbelief, and an odd swell of paternal instinct.
When we finally met at a quiet café on Canal Street, Ivy was nervous, clutching a photograph of her mother and a birth certificate. I dont want you to think Im a fraud, she said.
I smiled, Im no millionaire, so scammers wouldnt bother me, I replied, and I do believe you. I remember Margaret.
We talked for hours. She spoke of her childhood, her mothers failed marriage, an estranged stepfather, and how shed been left to fend for herself. She confessed that shed spent years hunting for a father she barely knew. I listened, feeling a strange combination of regret and hope.
Im sorry I never knew about you, I said, shaking my head. I wish I could have been part of your life. I admitted that my own marriage never materialised, that I had lived as a bachelor, and now, unexpectedly, I had a daughter.
The conversation stretched into the night. I lay awake afterward, haunted by the thought that for decades Id been a father without a child, and now I had a chance to make up for lost time.
A few weeks later I learned that Ivy and her mother had owned a modest flat in Liverpool, which she had sold and was now renting a small flat here in Birmingham. I offered her a spare room in my house until she could get on her feet. I started buying her small presents, arranging modest celebrations, introducing her to my old mates, and even mentioning a distant cousinmy fourthcousinjust for the sake of family stories.
Six months passed before Ivy finally called me Dad. I stepped onto the balcony that evening under the pretense of a phone call, and the tears came unbidden.
Two years later Ivy married a kind man she met through work. When her son was born, I found myself waking up at odd hours, bringing diapers, and bragging to my mates about being a grandfather. I also met a woman, Helen, a teacher from StratforduponAvon, with whom I now plan to grow old. My world, once a solitary road, now hums with the chatter of a daughter, a soninlaw, a grandson, and a partner.
Looking back, I realise I was on the brink of missing out on the very thing I thought Id never have: a family. The lesson I take with me is simplelifes chances dont always knock at the right time, but if you keep the door open, they may burst in when you least expect it.
