VIC, PLEASE DON’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY, BUT I WANT MY DAD TO WALK ME DOWN THE AISLE — HE’S MY REAL FAT…

JAMES, PLEASE DONT TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY. BUT I REALLY WANT MY DAD TO WALK ME DOWN THE AISLE. HE IS MY REAL DAD, AFTER ALL. FATHER IS FATHER. AND YOU WELL, YOU KNOW, YOURE JUST MUMS HUSBAND. ITLL LOOK SO MUCH NICER IN THE PHOTOS IF ITS JUST ME AND DAD. HES SO DIGNIFIED IN A SUIT.

James, mid-cup of tea, froze.

He was fifty-five, with rough, calloused hands honed from years of lorry driving, and a back held together by luck and paracetamol.

Opposite him sat Alicethe bride-to-be. Gorgeous. Twenty-two, with an air of Im-in-a-romantic-comedy about her.

James remembered her as a five-year-old, the day he first stepped foot in their home. Shed ducked behind the sofa and shrieked, Mummy, whos THAT? Go away, youre a stranger!

But hed stayed.

He stayed through the training wheelspatching up knees, late-night chickenpox vigils when Mum (Veronica) was collapsing with exhaustion.

Hed paid for her braces (pawning his old motorbike). Hed bankrolled her university fees (working double shifts and wearing himself ragged).

Real Dad, Richard, made an appearance once every three months, if the stars aligned. Hed turn up with a cuddly bear, whisk her off for ice cream, spin some tales about crushing it in the city, and vanish again. Maintenance payments? Not a whisper.

Of course, love, murmured James, setting his mug on the table with a clink. Blood is blood. I understand.

Youre the best! Alice pecked his bristly cheek. By the way, the restaurant needs the rest of its deposit. Dad promised to help, but, well, his bank accounts are blocked for some silly tax review. Could you lend me, say, an extra couple of grand? Ill pay you back From the wedding gifts, promise!

James said nothing. He walked to the old sideboard, pulled out an envelope stashed under a pile of linen.

His Toyota needed a new engine; this was the fix-the-car fund.

Take it. No need to pay me back. Its my gift.

The wedding was straight out of a glossy magazine.

Country club venue, floral archway, expensive compère.

James and Veronica sat at the parents table. James in his one and only suit, which was definitely tighter around the shoulders than last time.

Alice glowed.

Her walk down the aisle, on Richards arm, turned heads. Richard looked the parttall, golden tan (fresh from Spain), tuxedo straight off a West End window mannequin. He strode along, beaming for the photographers, dabbing at imaginary tears with perfect timing.

Guests whispered, Such good looks! She takes after her father, doesnt she?

No one realised the tux was rented, or that Alice herself had quietly paid for it.

At the reception, Richard grabbed the microphone.

My darling girl! His baritone oozed like honey. I remember the first time I held you in my arms. You were my tiny princess. I always knew you deserved the best. May your husband carry you, just as I once did!

Applause. Women dabbing at their eyes.

James looked at the tablecloth. He didnt recall Richard doing much carrying, unless it was out of the pub. He did, however, remember being the one at the hospital when Alice was born.

Later, as the revelry peaked, James slipped outside for a smoke. His heart was acting up againmusic too loud, hall too stuffy.

He hid in the shade of some trees around the veranda and heard voices.

It was Richard, on the phone to some mate.

Yeah, all good, Steve. Swanky do. Free booze, posh nosh The muppets pay, we dance, you know? Shes grown up, decent looking. Had a word with her fella already, his old man’s well-placed. Gave him a nudge, said the father-in-law could use a bit of a leg up in business. Think he bought it. Few more glasses of bubbly and Ill get him to lend me five grand, say its for a loan. Alice? Oh, shes besotted. Few compliments, and she melts. Her mum, Vicky, is sat with that plodding driver of hers. Aged terribly, bless her. Lucky escape, me!

James froze in the dark.

He wanted nothing more than to march out, land a good smack on Richards smug face.

But he didnt.

Because, further down the veranda, half-hidden by the ivy, was Alice.

Shed come out for some air.

And she heard everything.

Alice pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Mascara be damned, tears marked silvery rivers.

She watched her real dad giggle into his phone, calling her resource and mug.

Richard hung up, straightened his bowtie and swaggered back to the party, grinning.

Alice slid down the wall, her white dress spreading on the garden path.

James approached, quietly. He said nothing cleverno I told you so, no smugness.

He simply slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

Come on, love. Youll catch a chill on those tiles.

Alice looked up, horrified and ashamed. The kind of shame you wish would swallow you whole.

Uncle James… she whimpered. Dad Hes He

I know, James said. Doesnt matter now. Come on. Your guests are waiting.

I can’t go back in! I invited him, put you in the cornerIm so stupid! God, I was so stupid!

You wanted a fairy tale, thats all, James said, holding out his rough, steady hand. Trouble is, sometimes the fairy tale comes from a con artist. Wash up, fix your face, and get back in there. Dont let him see hes broken you. This is your night, not his showcase.

Alice returned to the hall, still pale, but standing tall.

The compère announced, And now, the father-daughter dance!

Richard gleamed, strutting to the centre.

A hush.

Alice took the mic. Her hand shook, but her voice rang out.

Id like to change things a bit, she said. My biological father gave me life. Thank you for that. But the father-daughter dance isnt for the person who gave lifeits for the one who cared for it. The one who patched up scraped knees. Who taught me not to give up. The one who gave everything, just so I could be here today.

She turned to the parents table.

Dad James. Shall we dance?

Richard stalled, a silly grin frozen in the middle of the floor. A ripple ran through the guests.

James stood, scarlet with embarrassment, and shuffled over, awkward in his too-tight jacket.

Alice threw her arms round his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

Im sorry, Dad. So sorry, she whispered as they shuffled about.

Its all right, sweetheart, all right, James soothed, patting her back.

Richard lingered for a minute, realised the show was over, and slunk off to the bar then promptly disappeared from the wedding altogether.

Fast-forward three years.

James is in hospital. His heart finally gave trouble. Heart attack.

He lies there, pale and wired up to a drip.

The door opens.

Alice enters, holding the hand of a little boy, about two.

Grandad! the tot cries, darting to the bedside.

Alice sits, takes James hand and kisses each knuckle.

Dad, we brought you some oranges. And chicken soup. The doctor says youre going to be fine. Promise you wont worry. Ive already booked you a place at the seaside to recover.

James gazes at her and manages a smile.

He doesnt have millions. Just an old car and a dodgy back.

But hes the richest man alive. Because hes Dad. Without the step- attached.

Life has a way of setting things right. Pity it sometimes takes humiliation and regret to get there. But its better late than never, learning that fatherhood isnt a name on a birth certificateits the hand holding you up when you stumble.

Moral of the story?
Dont chase shiny wrappers. Theres seldom substance beneath them. Appreciate those who are there every day, offering a shoulder without being asked and expecting nothing in return. Because when the partys over and the music has faded, only true love sticks aroundnot those craving the spotlight.

So, did you have a stepdad more dear to you than your real dad? Or is blood thicker than tea in your book? James reached out, squeezing Alices hand with surprising strength. No seaside sand between my toes unless you and this little rascal are coming too, he croaked with a wink.

Alice laughed, lines of worry melting from her face. The boy, lips sticky with orange juice, clambered up beside James and snuggled under his arm. The beeping of the heart monitor faded into the background, replaced by small giggles and the simple joy of being together.

It wasnt the picture-perfect legacy of familyno glossy album, no flawless fairy tale. There were cracks, apologies, lessons carved out by loss and choosing right over easy. And right there, with three generations crammed onto one narrow bed, life feltat lastexactly as it should.

Outside, the nurses bustled and the city droned on. But in that sunlit hospital room, the world shrank to a kernel of warmth: a home built not of blood, but of kindness and earned trust.

And as the little boy drifted to sleep on his grandads chest, James closed his eyes tooheart battered but beating stronger than ever, knowing he would always be the one who stayed.