George Bennett was fiftytwo, a spry chap who could still be called in his prime. He worked hard, held a decent job at a firm in London, and had a stable circle of mates one of them, Tom, had been his neighbour since they were kneehigh to a grasshopper. The only thing missing from his life was a family.
In his younger days George was something of a Casanova, swapping romances as often as he changed socks, thrilled by the fact that he was still easy on the eyes and popular at the local pub.
When he nudged forty, the inevitable midlife alarm started ticking. He met a wonderful lady, and for two solid years they were together, even sketching out wedding plans. Then, out of the blue, she bolted for someone else. George laughed it off as karma catching up after all, hed left a trail of broken hearts, and now the universe was serving him a slice of his own pie.
Serious relationships never really materialised again. Occasionally a flirty encounter would pop up, but they were either onenight standtype flings or brief romances that fizzled faster than a damp firework.
By fifty, George had resigned himself to a solitary future: no marriage, no grandchildren, perhaps a companion in his twilight years if luck decided to drop a lonely soul his way. If not, well, hed just be George and his thoughts.
His family tree was pretty much a bare branch. His parents were gone, he had no siblings, and only a thirdcousin and a nephew his sisters son, Tim kept occasional contact. Most of his old mates had settled down, sporting wives, kids and now grandkids, and their evenings were spent at home rather than in a lads night out. They still called George up now and then, but he felt a tad lonely. Age, after all, has a way of making you more aware of the ticking clock.
He didnt fancy turning into the stereotypical grumpy old bloke who chats with the telly, walks the dog in the park and mutters about the youngsters. Yet the more he thought about the future, the more that image seemed inevitable.
He carried on meeting women, hoping the right one would appear, and kept the occasional catchup with friends, treating their families as his own. He saw his nephew now and then, and even the occasional chat with a distant cousin. Nothing monumental seemed about to shift.
One Saturday, as George was gearing up for a weekend getaway with the lads, his phone rang. Assuming it was one of the crew, he snatched the handset without glancing at the screen, juggling a bag and a halfpacked suitcase.
Hello? he said, wedging the phone between shoulder and ear.
Good afternoon, is this George Bennett? a womans voice asked politely.
George, thinking it was another telemarketing pitch, was ready to hang up. He was perpetually late, always blaming his tardiness on helping the wives get ready, but this felt different.
The line rang again. He finally looked at the screen and saw an unfamiliar number.
Im not interested in your loans or whatever youre selling! he barked.
George, Im not calling about a sale, a gentle female voice replied.
He slumped onto the sofa, bewildered. What is this? A new scam?
May I ask why?
My names Poppy, Im twentytwo, and I think Im your daughter.
Scam alert, he thought, but the story was getting juicy.
He checked his watch still a few minutes left before the bus left. He decided to play along.
Seriously? And how did you work that out?
My mums name was June Hart. She told me everything before she passed.
Georges grin faded, replaced by a flash of memories: a carefree youth, a promising career that whisked him off to a nearby city for a short assignment, days full of work and nights suddenly free.
After a long day, George popped into the nearest pub. Two women, younger than him but not enough to make him feel out of place, were gossiping merrily. He joined them, and after a while one of the friends excused herself to meet her boyfriend. The other, Claire, a fresh graduate from the local college, lingered.
They roamed the nightlit streets together, chatting as if theyd known each other for years. Claire invited him over to her flat a modest one she shared with her friend who had just left. George found himself at her doorstep, bewildered but amused.
He spent three days in that town, three evenings with the lively Claire. When his work assignment ended, she saw him to the train. He offered his number; she declined.
All right, we have no future, she said.
George agreed, but slipped his surname, Bennett, into the conversation just in case she ever wanted to track him down. A month later, his mind was elsewhere a new romance had already sprouted, proving he was still the same fickle chap hed always been.
Back at home, the phone rang again, pulling him back to reality.
Yes? he answered.
Why did you say I was your daughter? a softer voice asked.
My mother told me you werent ready for a family. She didnt want to tie you down, Poppy explained. Now shes gone she died a month ago.
God Im sorry. What happened?
Cancer. We realised it too late. Before she passed, she showed me a photo youd taken years ago, printed it, and kept it. I tracked you down on social media, found your number, and called.
George sat mute, the weight of it all sinking in.
Why didnt she tell me about you? he whispered.
She thought you werent prepared for a child. She didnt want to drag you into her grief, Poppy said. I have no one now. I assume you have a life, perhaps a family Im not imposing, I just
Poppy, George interrupted, lets meet. I want to meet my daughter.
Okay, she breathed.
He cancelled the nature trip what news! and tried to make sense of his swirling emotions. He was determined to meet his daughter.
When they finally sat in a cosy café, Poppy was clearly nervous, clutching a photo of her mother and a copy of her birth certificate.
I dont want you to think Im some con artist, she said.
Im not a millionaire, so I dont get swarmed by scammers, George chuckled, and I believe you. I remember your mum.
They talked for hours. Poppy recounted her childhood, her mothers brief marriage, a stepdad she barely saw, and how shed been left alone after her mothers death. Shed set out to find her father, hoping for a piece of the family she never knew.
Im sorry I never knew about you, George said, shaking his head. Id love to be part of your life, watch you grow. My own marriage fell through, I never had kids turns out I actually have a daughter.
They spent three solid hours together and promised to meet again.
That night George lay awake, feeling a mix of sorrow for Poppys struggles and a pinch of irritation that hed been left in the dark for decades. He resolved to make up for lost time.
The next meeting revealed Poppys living situation: she inherited a flat from her mother, but after moving to London where George lived she was renting it out and staying in a modest flat of her own. George offered her a room at his house so she could save money and eventually buy a proper place.
He delighted in surprising her with small gifts, organising little celebrations, and introducing her to his mates. He even mentioned a distant cousin, a fourthcousin, just to fill in the family tree.
Six months later, Poppy called him Dad for the first time. He stepped onto his balcony, pretending he was on a phone call, and let the tears flow.
Two years on, Poppy wed, and when her child arrived, George went absolutely bonkers the proud, slightly overthetop grandfather, making up for years of missed birthdays.
Now George no longer feels like a solitary old man. Hes paired off with a lovely lady he intends to grow old with, has a daughter, a soninlaw and a grandchild. Only now does he truly realise how close hed come to missing out on the happiest thing called family.
