She turned around.

And there he was.

She could barely say his name.

‘Dad?’

The only place open at four o’clock on Christmas Day in Coed Celyn was, ironically, Montgomery Hall. How Patricia would seethe, would explode, if she could see them now, huddled in the corner of the residents’ lounge on two big armchairs, sharing a pot of tea.

It had taken a good couple of minutes’ worth of staring before Judith could believe her eyes. She kept squeezing his arms, checking he was really there. He’d grown a beard, and he was thinner, but yes, this was definitely, most certainly, without doubt, her beloved dad, Georgios Andreas Charalambos.

‘I didn’t buy you anything,’ he said. ‘I thought you prefer money.’ And he took out a wad of notes, which he thrust at her.

‘Dad, I don’t want money from you – this is the best Christmas present I could ever have! Seeing you!’

‘Take it. Please.’

Reluctantly she took it. Two hundred pounds. ‘It’s too much,’ she said.

‘No. It’s nowhere near enough. For what I’ve put you through. It’s nothing.’

Judith shook her head, ‘Dad – I’m glad you went, don’t you see? Of course I miss you – but I want you to be happy.’ She hesitated. ‘You are happier, aren’t you?’

And George just smiled in response.

He’d driven down from Scotland early Christmas Eve, and was staying in a cheap motel five miles away. When he’d seen her leave Patricia’s house on her own, he’d followed her to the park.

‘I was frightened you would be angry. Tell me to go away,’ he said.

‘You’re mad. Why on earth would I do that?’

He smiled and took a big gulp of tea, as if seeking courage in its warmth. He paused for a moment and gathered his thoughts. ‘Judi-moo, there’s something I need to tell you. Something you don’t know about me,’ he said, unable to look her in the eye.

She couldn’t bear to see him suffer and quickly interrupted him. ‘No, Daddy, I need to tell you something first,’ she said quietly.

But George was so focused on getting his words out that he didn’t really hear what she said. He’d been gearing up to telling her, to facing this moment, for months – for years, in fact – and he carried on talking, determined to confess.

‘You see, when I was young, when I lived in Cyprus—’

She took his hand. ‘You lived in a little village called Kakopetria, in the Troodos Mountains …’

‘Yes …’ George’s confusion grew as she continued.

‘And you had a sister called Sofia and proxenia with Cleoniki who you were betrothed to, but you came to Wales for work and you met Patricia, and you fell in love, and so you couldn’t go back.’

She paused for a moment, letting him absorb her words. ‘I saw your letter. Sofia showed me,’ she said, tears now hurtling down her cheeks. ‘It’s OK, Dad,’ she said gently, taking his hand. ‘I know your story.’