George Whitaker was fiftytwo, a spry bloke still in the prime of his life. He held a respectable post at a midsize engineering firm in Birmingham and kept a steady trickle of mates, one of whom hed known since schoolyard scuffles. The only thing missing from his résumé was a family of his own.
In his younger days George was something of a Casanova, flitting from one flirt to the next with the confidence of a man who knew he looked the part. By the time he hit forty he began to feel the weight of his own reflection and thought, Maybe Ive had enough of the dating carousel. He met a lovely woman, they dated for two solid years and even pencilled in a wedding. Then, out of the blue, she bolted for someone else. George blamed karma after all, hed left a trail of broken hearts, so perhaps the universe was returning the favour.
After that, serious romances stayed just beyond his reach. Occasionally a lady would pop up, but they were either fleeting encounters or brief love affairs. By fifty hed resigned himself to a bachelor existence, convinced hed never see a wedding ring or a pram in his future. If old age ever introduced a solitary lady willing to share a cuppa and a crossword, great; if not, hed simply go it alone.
His nearest relatives were practically nonexistent. His parents were long dead, no siblings to speak of, and the only extended kin were a thirdcousin and her son, with whom contact was sporadic at best. Most of his old school friends were now happily married, boasting grandchildren and family barbecues. They still invited him out now and then, but George felt a pang of loneliness that he tried to brush off as just getting older. He didnt want to end up the grumpy old chap who talks to the telly, trots the dog in the park and mutters about young whippersnappers, yet the vision kept nudging him.
He kept meeting women, hoping one might be the one, and still turned up for drinks with his mates, treating their families as if they were his own. He even saw his cousins son now and then. Nothing seemed set to change dramatically until a Saturday morning, just as he was loading a backpack for a countryside outing with the lads, his mobile rang. Assuming it was a mate, he snatched the handset without glancing at the screen.
Hello? he said, juggling a bottle of water between his shoulder and ear.
Good afternoon, George? a calm female voice replied.
He rolled his eyes, ready to hang up, thinking it was another telemarketing ploy. Not another loan offer, please, he snapped.
Dont worry, Im not selling you anything, the woman said, her tone gentle.
George slumped onto the sofa, still wondering if this was some new scam. Whats this then?
My names Molly. Im twentytwo, and I think Im your daughter.
He stared at the clock, noting he still had a few minutes before the hike. Seriously? And how did you work that out?
My mum was Helen Cooper, Molly answered, a hint of nervousness in her voice. She told me you were my father before she passed away.
The name Helen sparked a vague memory of a former colleagues wife, but the rest of Georges brain filled the gap with a montage of his own reckless youth late nights at the office, a sudden business trip to Leeds, and a night out at The Crown where hed sat beside two young women. One of them, a brighteyed grad named Grace, had stayed longer, and theyd roamed the citys neonlit streets as if theyd known each other forever. Hed spent three nights in a tiny flat she shared with a friend, then gone back to work, never thinking about it again.
Now, a month after Helens death from cancer, Molly had dug through old photos, found a picture George had taken at a company picnic, and tracked him down on social media. I know it sounds insane, she said, but I needed to know my dad.
George sat there, mouth halfopen, as the reality of a twentysecond lifechanging revelation sank in. Why didnt she tell me?
She said you werent ready for a family then, Molly replied quietly. She didnt want to tie you down. Now shes gone, and Im on my own.
The absurdity of the situation made him chuckle despite the knot in his throat. Well, Im not a millionaire, but Ill believe you. I remember Helen.
They agreed to meet at a café in the city centre. When Molly arrived, she clutched a printed birth certificate and a faded photograph of her mother with George, smiling at a garden party. Im not trying to scam you, she said, cheeks pink.
Neither am I, George laughed, and Im still not rich enough to attract a whole gang of fraudsters.
They talked for hours. Molly narrated her upbringing, the shortlived marriage of her mother, the estranged stepdad she never saw, and the lonely years that led her to hunt for her father. He confessed that his own marriage never materialised, that he had no kids until this very moment. He felt a mixture of remorse, bewilderment, and a strange, warm joy.
That night George could hardly sleep. He mourned the lost years, yet felt a fierce protectiveness for this girl who had just appeared out of thin air. He vowed to be part of her life, however late the chapter started.
A few weeks later he discovered that Molly was living in a modest flat shed inherited from her mother, but was now renting a room in Manchester to be closer to him. He offered her a spare room in his own house, suggesting she could sell the old flat and settle in a bigger place once she saved enough. He started bringing her coffee, surprising her with tiny gifts, and introducing her to his circle of mates, who welcomed her with the same goodnatured banter theyd always shown George.
Six months after their first meeting, Molly, smiling sheepishly, called him Dad. He stepped onto his balcony, pretending to make a phone call, and let the tears roll down his cheeks. It was the most honest, unguarded moment hed ever had.
Two years on, Molly married a friendly schoolteacher, and they welcomed a baby boy. Suddenly George found himself not only a father but a grandfather, doting on his grandson with embarrassing enthusiasm. He also met a charming woman, Clara, at a charity garden party, and the two began planning their golden years together.
Now, with a daughter, a soninlaw, and a cheeky little grandson bouncing around the garden, George no longer feels the sting of solitude. He still jokes with his mates about becoming that grumpy old man, but now he has plenty of fresh material to mock. Hes learned that life can hand you a family even when you think youve missed the bus, and that sometimes the best punchline is simply: I never expected to be a dad at fiftytwo, but here we are and I wouldnt have it any other way.
