Pushing the cold cup of coffee across the table, I glanced impatiently around the cafe. He’s got caught up, I thought to myself, looking at my watch.
It was a Saturday in March 2004 and I’d arranged to meet my dad John, 34.
He’d split up from my mum Nicki, 37, when I was little.
But he’d always been there for me - taught me to read, even let me practice driving his car in fields when I turned 15.
‘Don’t tell Mum,’ he’d wink.
Now, we’d meet twice a week, for lunch or shopping. I was a real Daddy’s girl, idolised him.
He was often late, muttering excuses, flashing a cheeky grin.
But he’d always turn up eventually. Until this time...
I checked my watch again, felt a flash…
