“Who are you to me now?” Thirty years later, my father came back into my life… and straight into a hospital bed.
Edward returned home from work, pulling into the car park of a high-rise in the quiet suburbs of Leicester. He parked, popped the boot, hauled out two heavy shopping bags, and trudged toward the entrance. Just as he was about to punch in the code for the door, a voice called out to him.
“Ed? Is that you?”
He turned. An old man sat on the bench—unkempt, in a tattered jacket, his beard matted and grey, eyes dull. A vagrant, by the look of him. Edward frowned.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“Ed… It’s me—Victor. Your dad. Don’t you recognise me?”
Edward recoiled as if struck. His father. The same man who’d walked out on him and his mother nearly thirty years ago, when he was just nine. And now, here he sat, as though no time had passed.
“I got your address from Margaret, your late mother’s friend… She told me Evelyn had passed. I didn’t know. I had no idea. God, the way she suffered, and I was… out there somewhere…”
“Where *were* you?” Edward cut in bitterly. “Where were you when Mum cried herself to sleep? When I made her tea because you’d gone ‘out’ again? When you raised your hand to her—to *me*? Forgotten? *I* haven’t.”
“Son, what’s the point in dragging all that up? Life with Catherine wasn’t easy either. At first, it was all laughs—drinking, celebrating I’d left. Then… things changed. Money rows, shouting matches. No kids of our own. Her daughter threw me out in the end. And that was that. Now I’m nobody. But remember when I took you to the park? Bought you that fizzy drink?”
“Are you *serious*? You think a bottle of pop makes up for it? Forgotten how you emptied the cupboard of our last fiver before you left? How you spat in Mum’s face when you walked out for your ‘better life’? Forgotten? *I* haven’t!”
Edward spun on his heel and marched inside, leaving his father on the bench. His hands shook with rage. At home, his wife, Charlotte, met him in the hall.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“My father. Turned up. Sat outside—filthy, dressed in rags. Said he’s got no one left and needs help. Thirty years of silence, and now he remembers he has a son!”
“Maybe just hear him out—”
“He’s *nothing* to me. Not an ounce of pity left.”
Charlotte said nothing. Edward retreated to the bedroom, but sleep wouldn’t come. Memories flooded back—his mother’s tears, the night his father dragged a suitcase out and slammed the door behind him.
Three days later, his father was there again, waiting by the entrance, hopeful.
“Son… I get it. But you’ve made something of yourself—surely you’ve room for me, even a bite to eat…”
“And where were *you* when my school shoes had holes? When Mum was ill? Nobody helped me then. I owe you *nothing*. Get lost.”
The old man dropped his gaze, silent.
The next morning, a knock at the door. A young woman in nurse’s scrubs stood there.
“Mr. Edward? Your father’s at St. Mary’s. He was beaten—got into a row with someone. He asked me to find you. Said you’re all he’s got…”
“And? I’m not family. He’s nothing to me.”
“But… he said he had a son he loved. I’m sorry.”
As she turned to leave: “He’s in Ward 3…”
Charlotte had heard everything.
“Ed… maybe we should go? Just see how he is…”
A few hours later, they stood in the hospital corridor, bags of food and clean clothes in hand. The doctor met them with a grim look.
“Not long left, I’m afraid. Liver’s gone. Years of drink…”
In the ward, Victor’s eyes welled up at the sight of Edward.
“You came… I knew you would. And this is Charlotte? My daughter-in-law… Any grandchildren? Just to see them *once*…”
Days later, they brought their little girl. Victor gazed at her like a miracle, stroked her hand, wept.
“Christ… the image of your grandmother. So beautiful… be happy, love.”
On the fourth day, he called Edward over.
“Forgive me, son… for all of it. For not loving you. For breaking your mother. Forgive me…”
Edward took his hand. Held it tight. Said nothing. It was the only way to say, *”You’re forgiven.”*
A week later, Victor was gone. Edward arranged the funeral himself. Buried him beside his mother. No one else came to say goodbye. But for the first time in years, his chest felt light.
He owed the man nothing. Yet he’d done what conscience demanded.
