**A Call from the Past: The Return of a Father**
I shut the fridge door, wiping my hands on a rag.
“Right, that should do it. It ought to freeze now, but let’s test it first,” I told the homeowner. “Got an empty plastic bowl? Fill it with water and pop it in the freezer. I’ll ring you tonight—if it’s frozen, we’re sorted.”
Then the phone buzzed again—probably another customer, I thought. I answered.
“Hello, appliance repairs. How can I help?” A pause. “Yes, this is Edward Whitmore. That’s right, Edward James Whitmore, if it matters.” My breath hitched. “Sorry, what did you say? Father?” I nearly dropped the phone.
The voice introduced himself—James William Whitmore. It took a second to sink in: my dad, who I hadn’t seen or heard from in over twenty years. My heart pounded as memories flickered like an old film reel.
“And what… do you want?” I stumbled, unsure what to even call him. “Meet up and talk? Yeah, sure—just a casual two decades later. Look, I’m on a job. I’ll ring you back.” I ended the call and muttered under my breath, “Well, that’s rich.”
Shows up after all this time. Probably after something. Money, no doubt. How old’s he now? Pushing sixty, I reckon. I snorted, turning back to the fridge.
“Alright, all set,” I told the woman. “Check the water tonight. If it’s frozen, you’re good to go.”
She thanked me, and I headed to the next call—an elderly woman with a leaky washing machine. Chatty thing, insisted I sit for tea and biscuits. The fix was simple: just the door seal needed reseating. The last bloke had quoted her a fortune. Me? I charged barely anything—can’t stomach overcharging pensioners. She kept saying she hadn’t met kindness like mine in ages. I shrugged it off, sipping tea, promising to swing by if anything else broke.
But my mind kept circling back to that call. Fragments of the past resurfaced. My parents split when I was five. Dad drank, lost his job. Mum cried but believed his promises. Then one evening, when she was working late, he picked me up from nursery. We stopped in the park, and he pulled a beer from his coat, ranting to a five-year-old about how Mum didn’t respect him. Then he passed out on a bench. I remember tugging at his sleeve, but he just swatted me away. Strangers stared. Humiliated, I walked home alone—got lost halfway before a neighbor found me.
Mum didn’t shout when she found out. Just said quietly, “Leave. You let him walk off alone. What kind of father does that?”
He moved away. Sent money now and then, the odd toy. Mum would scoff, “We’re fine without him, aren’t we, Eddie?”
When I turned ten, she introduced me to Uncle David. “Love, David wants to marry me. He’ll take care of us. Fancy a new bike?”
David was decent enough. Loved Mum, but he wasn’t my dad. Part of her love went to him, and I felt like an afterthought.
That evening, I dug out Dad’s number and called back. He answered straightaway.
“Edward, let’s meet. Tomorrow, seven o’clock. Our old spot—the bench by the fountain in Victoria Park. Can you make it?”
“Yeah,” I grunted. “I’ll be there.”
Mum once said David wanted to adopt me, give me his name. “We’re family now.” But I’d refused. I needed to stay Edward James Whitmore. Like keeping a thread tied to Dad, however frayed. Mum wanted to erase him, but part of me kept waiting. For what, I didn’t know. Eventually, I realised—there was nothing to wait for.
Walking to the park the next night, I’d already decided: if he asked for money, fine. I’d hand it over, and that’d be it. He’d sent gifts over the years—call it repayment, then done. Mum had David; she wouldn’t care.
“Too ashamed to face us, so he sends packages,” she’d say, tossing them aside.
By the fountain, I spotted an older man. He stood as I approached. *No sappy lines,* I thought. *No “son, finally reunited.”* And please, God, let him be sober.
“Good evening, Edward,” he said, offering his hand.
“Evening.” I shook it—firm grip.
“Let’s cut to it,” Dad began. “I promised your mother I’d stay away while you were young. She despised me, and you were scared. I moved to Manchester. At first, I couldn’t land work—drank out of sheer hopelessness. Then, after one binge too many, I ended up in hospital. The nurse who patched me up became my wife. She had a daughter, Emily. Raised her as my own. Started fixing cars, appliances—anything. Built a crew. But you’re grown now. I wanted to meet. You’re my only blood. I’d like to ask—”
I braced. Here it comes: the ask for cash. But he didn’t look like a drunk—smart coat, steady gaze. Same eyes as mine, same ears. Even shoved his hands in his pockets the same way. Could’ve been a proper dad.
“Edward, I’ve got a business—repairs, refurbs,” he said. “Looks like we’re cut from the same cloth. I’ve moved back, brought the family. Want to open a branch here. I’m offering you partnership. Eventually, it’d be yours. Think it over. I know I’m a stranger. But I’d like to give you what I couldn’t before. A father’s support.”
I was floored. Expected a handout, got a hand up. Within weeks, I’d agreed.
Bit by bit, I learned who Dad was. The resentment faded. Working side by side, we fitted together like puzzle pieces finally slotting into place. Now, Edward Whitmore doesn’t do house calls alone. We run a thriving repair business. Pensioners still get my discount.
And I proposed to my girlfriend, Charlotte. Two years together, but I’d hesitated. Now I know—I’m ready to be a husband. A father.
That night, Dad said, “I was a fool. Got lost, didn’t know how to live. I’m sorry, son. Time doesn’t excuse it. Nor does age. A man’s got to step up.”
I forgave him. While there’s breath, there’s time to mend things.
