‘I don’t know what thirteen-year-old girls like’.

‘Shouldn’t be giving her anything after the way her mother treated you’

‘Not helpful Mum’

‘I’m just saying. That’s a granddaughter I don’t get to see’. Lips pursed, arms folded, she turned and went back towards the kitchen. The Sunday smell of roast combined with the fug of drying laundry in the front room and Rob felt fifteen again, suffocating on the sofa, desperate to escape.

‘I’m just going out. Won’t be long’.

The fresh air made his head swim. He’d bought the card but now he wasn’t sure if it was right. Too girly with flowers and birds? It had a pink glittering number thirteen. Too much? If he got on with it he could catch the 12.50, be there by two and give it to her in person. Her lovely face and those eyes looking up at him. His head was pounding; he could feel his shoulder seizing up after last night and he was still in his work clothes. Shouldn’t have had that extra pint but Steve had given him that look and he needed the job. 

The train was delayed and he sat, his right foot twitching, looking down at the platform. Write it now, save time at the other end. He took the card out of the bag and looked at it. Who designs these things? Weird spindly flowers, small round-eyed blue birds with purple wings and long eyelashes, swooping stars and bows. Is this what girls really like? Her world is a mystery. Kirsty says she’s good at maths and wants to be picked for the football team. Maybe they could talk about that. When she was born he could not believe that such a precious, delicate thing was there in his arms, face screwed up and tiny fingers reaching into the air, her smell, her soft head. His daughter. His. 

Did he bring a pen? Check jacket pockets, no, he bought one in the card shop. Still in the bag. What to write? His fingers feel fat and clumsy. He should practise a bit, check the pen’s working, scribble on the bag, need something to lean on. It must be right. He tried to get it right with Kirsty but it slipped away and she had that look. A bit like Steve really. But Sophie? His scar throbbed and his fingers went automatically to the side of his face. Her small hand had touched it lightly as she whispered, ‘What happened, Daddy?’ 

He looked around. There were people but no-one was looking at him. His stomach growled and he could smell the cooking bacon from the snack bar. Just write the card. He took a deep breath, leant the card on his knee and wrote ‘Dear Sophie’. Too big? Not enough room to write much. Too late now. Just do it. ‘Have a great day! Love Dad x’. People say that all the time – ‘have a great day!’ How can it mean anything? Words just don’t work.

The train was due and the air around him shifted as people started to move. The money – it had to be money. He took out his wallet and counted the notes. How much is right? £60, no, more. £100, yes. He’s not tight. Kirsty can’t complain about that. He’ll be alright for the week if the Tuesday shift comes through. Put the notes inside the card, the card in the envelope, lick it and seal it down, pressing it on his knee again, it’s a rush. The train is in; the doors hiss open. The card won’t fit in his jacket pocket and he doesn’t want to bend it but the corners are crushed already so his large hand fumbles; he holds it close to his chest as he steps on board.

Doorbell. Music, girls laughing and then there she was.

‘Dad! Yesss!’

‘Alright? Happy birthday. Here you go.’

She took the envelope and stepped back for him to come inside.

‘Thanks Dad. My mates are here but they can wait. Do you want some cake?’

‘Yeah, if that’s ok’

Kirsty watched narrowly from the kitchen. 

The lounge was quiet, tidy and still. He sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa. 

‘Here you go!’ It was a large slice of cake with swirls of icing, yellow and pink.

‘So I made the team, and there’s a match on Tuesday after school. Can you come?’

He took a bite; sugary intensity filled his mouth.

‘I’ll be there’.