Dear Diary,
Tonight the old year is slipping away, and Im standing on the doorstep of my flat in a little suburb of Birmingham, waiting for the new one to begin. The office had long emptied, but Irenemy former colleaguehad no one waiting for her. She decided to finish her shift early on New Years Eve, so she could get home in time for the prepacked salads, fruit and a bottle of fizz waiting in her freezer. Shed hoped to slip out of her heels and into something softa cosy pyjamaafter a monthlong breakup with Andrew that still left her raw. She wasnt in any hurry to start a new romance; being alone felt safer.
I saw her step off the bus, a few paces from her building, when a frail old man perched on a bench caught her eye. Beside him stood a tiny, decorated fir tree. Probably visiting someone, she thought, offering a polite nod. The man returned the gesture without a word, his eyes glinting as if reflecting streetlights or perhaps tears. I brushed the feeling aside and hurried inside.
Outside the evening chill had settled in, making me shiver. After a warm shower I slipped into my favourite fluffy nightgown, poured a mug of tea and made my way to the window. Yet the old man remained seated on the bench, unmoving.
I wondered why he was out there when the new year was only two hours away, and why his eyes still held that strange sparkle. I set the table, switched on the fairy lights on my own little Christmas tree, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the solitary figure outside.
Half an hour later I peeked again; he was still there, as still as a statue. Perhaps hes ill, or simply frozen, I mused, then wrapped a coat around my shoulders and stepped out. Sitting beside him, I tried to strike up conversation.
Excuse me, are you alright? I noticed youve been sitting here a long time. Its freezing out, I said gently.
He sighed, Nothing, dear. Ill just sit a bit longer and then head to the station. Ive got a train home.
Where to? I asked.
To the station, then home, he replied.
Please, dont stay out here tonight. Let me get you inside, warm up, and you can catch your train later, I urged.
No buts, dear. Come, lets go, he insisted, his voice firm despite his frailty.
If Irene had seen me now, shed have rolled her eyes, but there was no one else to leave him out there. He rose, took the tiny fir tree, and, with a shy smile, asked if he could bring it inside.
Of course, I said, handing it over.
Inside, he set the tree in the hallway, shivering with each step. I made tea, and as he cupped the warm mug, he finally spoke.
Emily, dont think ill of me. Im not a tramp. My name is Michael Seymour. Ive come to see my daughter, he began, his voice wavering. My marriage fell apart years ago; I left my wife Lucy for another woman. We had a daughter, Molly, then five. I tried to help, but Lucy was proud and refused any assistance, even child support. She turned Molly against me. One day I tried to hand her a toy at the nursery; she ran away, calling me nobody. I stopped coming altogether. Money I sent back home kept bouncing back. Ten years later we returned, lived in my parents flat, sold it, bought a small cottage in the countryside. Lucy passed away two years ago, and Im left alone.
He paused, eyes distant.
I didnt expect forgiveness. I havent seen Molly in years. She still lives in the flat we once shared. I bought a tree and came hoping to knock on her door, but she wouldnt let me in. Im a stranger to her now. Im not looking for anythingmy house is fine, my pension is decent. I just wanted to see my child, the only person I still love.
He sighed again, I thought Id sit here forever, but perhaps Im still needed somewhere.
I offered him a seat on my sofa. Stay the night, the bus wont run until morning. Youll be warm, and Ill make sure you catch a morning coach.
Michael looked at me, grateful yet embarrassed. Its uncomfortable, Emily. Most people wouldnt let a stranger in. Honestly, Id rather not be alone tonight. If youll have me, Ill leave early.
Agreed, I replied.
In the early hours, Michael gathered his things. Thank you, Irenesorry, I mean Emily, he said, halflaughing. Youve saved me from a foolish decision to stay out here forever. If you ever wish to visit, my place isnt far. I have a modest garden, a small apiary with five hives, and an orchard that blooms in summer. The river runs close by, perfect for a quiet walk.
I promised Id come, and watched him disappear down the street, his figure melting into the predawn mist. The night reminded me how strangers can become family, and how the loss of my own parents years ago made me more attuned to the loneliness in others. Hearing Michaels story, I resolved to visit him again, to bring a bit of warmth to his life.
Sometimes the people we think we know avoid us, while those we barely notice turn out to be the ones we need most.
Emily.
