“Who are you to me now?” — Thirty years later, my father returned to my life… and straight into a hospital bed.
Edward returned home from work, pulling into the car park of his block of flats in a quiet part of Nottingham. He parked, popped the boot, hauled out two heavy bags of groceries, and made for the entrance. Just as he reached to punch in the code for the intercom, a voice called out to him.
“Eddie? Is that you?”
He turned. On the bench sat an old man—unkempt, in a tattered coat, with a greying, tangled beard and dull eyes. He looked like a vagrant. Edward frowned.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“Eddie… I’m Victor. Your father. 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, like none of it had ever happened.
“I got your address from Lydia, your late mother’s friend… She told me Margaret had passed. I didn’t know. I had no idea. Christ, how she must’ve suffered, and I was off somewhere…”
“Where were you?” Edward cut in sharply. “Where were you when Mum cried herself to sleep? When I had to make her tea because you’d gone off ‘on the town’ again? When you raised your hand to her—to both of us? Did you forget? Because I haven’t.”
“Son, what’s the point in dredging up the past? Life with Catherine wasn’t easy either. At first, it was all fun—drinking, celebrating her ‘freedom.’ But then… things changed. Money rows, screaming matches. We never had kids of our own. Her daughter kicked me out in the end. That was that. I’m nobody now. But remember when I took you to the park? Bought you that fizzy pop?”
“Are you serious? You think a bottle of pop makes up for it? For stealing the last of our rent money before you left? For spitting in Mum’s face when you walked out for your ‘better life’? Did you forget? Because I haven’t!”
Edward spun on his heel and strode into the building, leaving his father on the bench. His hands shook with anger. Inside, his wife, Emily, took one look at him.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“My father. Turned up. Sat outside like some stray—filthy, half-starved. Said he’s got nobody now, wants help. Thirty years of silence, and suddenly he remembers he has a son!”
“Maybe you should talk to him?”
“He’s nothing to me! Not an ounce of sympathy!”
Emily said nothing. Edward shut himself in the bedroom but couldn’t sleep. Memories lashed at him—his mother’s tears, the night his father dragged a suitcase down the hall 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 got room for me—just a meal, a roof—”
“Where were you when I needed school shoes? Where were you when Mum was ill? Nobody helped me then. I owe you nothing. Get lost.”
His father bowed his head and spoke no more.
The next morning, a knock at the door. A young woman in scrubs.
“Hello, are you Edward? Your father’s in hospital. He was attacked—some row in the street. He asked me to find you. Said you’re all he’s got.”
“And? He’s no family of mine. He’s nothing to me.”
“But… he said he has a son he loves.” She hesitated. “He’s at Nottingham General, Ward Three.”
Emily had heard everything.
“Ed… Maybe we should go? Just see how he is.”
An hour later, they were at the hospital, carrying food, clean clothes. The doctor met them.
“He’s in a bad way. Liver’s gone. Years of drink, too late to fix. He hasn’t got long.”
In the ward, his father’s eyes filled when he saw Edward.
“You came… I knew you would. And this is Emily? My daughter-in-law… Any grandchildren? Just one look, that’s all I ask.”
A few days later, they brought their daughter. The old man gazed at her like a miracle, stroked her hand, wept.
“Good Lord… Spitting image of your nan. So lovely… Be happy, sweetheart.”
On the fourth day, he called Edward to him.
“Forgive me, son… For all of it. For not loving you. For breaking your mother. Forgive me.”
Edward took his hand. Tight. Silent. It was the only way to say, *I forgive you.*
A week later, his father 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 nothing. But he’d done all that conscience demanded.
