A quiet evening settled over the outskirts of York, where the dim glow of old street lamps flickered lazily against the windows of a cosy flat. Andrew Nicholson sat in a worn armchair, once shared with his wife, clutching a chipped mug—a gift from Marie, the woman he had spent seventeen years with before their divorce. After their separation, his life had spun into chaos, but in time, he found solace in Anna, who brought him stability and two more children.
He had always believed himself a decent father, especially to Christine, his daughter from his first marriage. After Marie left for abroad, abandoning the girl, Andrew raised her alone—then later, with Anna beside him. He thought he’d given her everything: a home, care, food, clothes. But as he would later realise, he had failed to give her the most important things—warmth and understanding. With each passing year, Christine grew quieter, more withdrawn. She stared at the floor, avoided conversation, as if living in a world entirely her own.
When she turned eighteen, she vanished. No arguments, no drama—just packed her things and left. Andrew refused to believe she could walk away so abruptly. He called, texted, searched, but was met with silence. A silence sharper than any words. He didn’t know where he’d gone wrong. Had he been too strict? Or too indifferent? Or perhaps the mere fact of her existence alongside his new family had cut too deep?
Ten years passed. In that time, Andrew built stability—his elder children from his second marriage went off to university, and Anna became his quiet rock. But memory is a cruel thing. It wouldn’t let go. Then, on a dreary November evening, his youngest, Alice, called. “Dad,” she said, “I’ve found Christine.” His heart skipped a beat. He’d known this day would come. But he wasn’t ready—not ready to hear that his daughter had built a life without him.
Alice confessed she’d messaged Christine. No reply, but no block either. So she was reading. She remembered. Andrew hesitated for weeks before writing himself. He chose letters, painstakingly handwritten, each word weighed and measured. He told her how he missed her. How he regretted. How he’d failed to see that his daughter wasn’t just a girl with a schoolbag and chores—but a child drowning in loneliness.
Christine, now a woman of twenty-eight, lived in Leeds. She worked as an accountant for a small firm, rented a flat, and never spoke of her childhood. Inside, she was still that ten-year-old girl, labelled “the helper” rather than “daughter.” Her mother had fled after the divorce, and her father had built a new life—leaving her erased. In that house, she hadn’t been a child. She had been convenient—someone to mind the children, wash the dishes, and stay silent.
Leaving at eighteen had been her scream. But no one heard. No one came. Only silence answered.
At first, Alice’s messages irritated her. Then they hurt. The girl had done nothing wrong, yet every text—about school, graduation photos—stabbed deep. But yesterday, a new message arrived. Quiet. Simple. No blame, no demands. Alice wrote that she understood Christine’s silence—and wouldn’t push. She just wanted her to know: she was there. Always.
Christine read it. Her chest ached. Her fingers hovered over the screen. Staring at the empty reply box, she hesitated, then typed—haltingly at first, then in a flood of truth, pouring out every hurt, every fear, every wound. And at the end, a whisper: *”I’ll try. Just… don’t rush me.”*
She hit *send* and stared out the window. For the first time in years, she felt it—a step, however small, toward something. Toward family. Toward a future where pain might finally give way to acceptance. And who knows? Perhaps soon, her life wouldn’t be just work and solitude, but someone who’d say: *”I’m glad you came back.”*
