“Where did you get this photo?” Edward paled as his eyes locked onto the image of his missing father.
When Edward returned home from work, his mother was watering the flowers on the balcony, gently tending to the hanging pots with careful hands. Her face was peaceful, glowing with quiet contentment.
“Mum, you’re like a bee—always busy,” Edward said, slipping off his jacket before crossing the room to embrace her shoulders. “On your feet all day again?”
“This isn’t work,” she dismissed with a warm smile. “It’s good for the soul. Look how they’re blooming. The air smells like a proper garden, not just a flat in London.”
Her laughter was soft, kind—just as he remembered. The scent of the flowers wrapped around him, stirring a memory: in their old cramped flat, their “garden” had been a single potted plant by the window that always shed its leaves.
So much had changed since then.
Now, she spent most of her time in the cottage he’d bought for her birthday. A modest home with sprawling grounds where she could plant whatever she pleased—seedlings in spring, tomatoes in summer, endless jars of preserves in autumn. And in winter, she counted the days until the earth thawed again.
But Edward knew that beneath her smiles, quiet sorrow lingered in her eyes. It never faded, not until her greatest wish was fulfilled—to see the man she had waited for all these years.
His father.
He had left for work one ordinary morning and never returned. Edward had been five. His mother told him that his father had kissed her temple, winked at him, and said, “Be good.” Then he walked out, not knowing it was the last time.
The police were called, searches made. Relatives and neighbours whispered—had he run off? Another family? Some accident? But his mother never wavered. “He wouldn’t have left us. If he’s gone, it’s because he couldn’t come back.”
Even now, thirty years later, Edward clung to that belief. His father wouldn’t have abandoned them. He couldn’t have.
After school, Edward studied engineering, though he secretly dreamed of journalism. But he had to stand on his own feet. His mother worked nights as a carer, never complaining, even when exhaustion made her knees weak and her eyes red. “It’s alright, Eddie,” she’d say. “Keep studying.”
So he did. And at night, he scoured missing-person databases, cross-referenced old reports, posted on forums. Hope didn’t die—it hardened into something stronger, shaping him. He grew up knowing he had to be his mother’s rock in his father’s absence.
When he landed his first proper job, he cleared her debts, opened a savings account, then bought the cottage. “That’s it, Mum. No more work.”
She had cried then, openly. He’d just held her. “You deserve this a thousand times over.”
Now, Edward dreamed of his own family. A home full of laughter, Sunday roasts, warmth. But first, he worked. Saved. Built his future.
And yet, the oldest dream still burned inside him—to find his father. To hear him say, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come back sooner.”
Sometimes, Edward swore he could still hear his voice. Remembered how he’d lift him up and say, “Ready for takeoff, champ?”—then toss him high, catching him tight.
That night, he dreamed of his father again—standing on a riverbank in an old coat, calling out. His face was blurred, like looking through mist, but his eyes—grey, deep, familiar—were unmistakable.
Edward’s job was steady, but a salary alone wouldn’t build the life he wanted, so he took side gigs—fixing computers, installing smart systems. Clients loved him: patient, clear, never pushy.
That evening, a referral came—a wealthy family in an exclusive gated estate. A home network needed configuring.
“Come after six. The lady of the house will be in,” he was told.
Security waved him through. The mansion loomed ahead, all glass and white pillars. The door opened to a young woman—mid-twenties, elegant, wearing a summer dress.
“You’re the technician? Follow me. The study’s this way.”
The air smelled of money—polished wood, fresh lilies. A grand piano in the lounge, oil paintings, bookshelves, framed photos. The study was all dark leather and mahogany, a sleek monitor atop a wide desk.
Edward unpacked his tools, began working. Then his gaze caught on a photograph.
A young couple. A woman in white, flowers in her hair. Beside her—a man in a grey suit, smiling.
His breath stopped.
The voice in his head was firm: It’s him.
He stood, stepped closer. Grey eyes. The same jawline. That slight dimple when he smiled.
“Excuse me… who is this?” His voice was unsteady.
The woman blinked. “My father. Do you know him?”
Edward didn’t know how to answer. His pulse roared in his ears. Finally, he managed, “I… think I might.” He exhaled. “Could you… tell me how they met? I know it’s odd, but it’s important.”
She hesitated but nodded. “Dad’s had an unusual life. He was just an engineer when they met—on holiday. Fell for Mum instantly.” She studied him. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale. Water?”
Edward nodded. The moment she left, he acted on impulse.
A folder—”Private.” Password-protected.
He typed his birthday.
It opened.
Scanned documents, old photos… and a text file.
No title.
He clicked.
The words read like a confession never sent:
*I knew it was wrong. From the first day. She was beautiful, clever, wealthy—and in love. I was nobody. Fresh off the train, nothing to my name. I lied. Said I was free, no attachments. Thought it’d be a fling. But then her family embraced me. Plans were made. A wedding. And I—I didn’t know how to escape. Her father offered money, connections. A new passport. No marriage record. I took it. I’m not proud. But back then, I told myself it was kinder—that Lydia would move on, that my boy was too young to remember. Now? I live in luxury, but I drink my coffee with shame. There’s no way back…*
Edward sat back, numb.
Anger? Disgust? Pity?
His mother had scraped every penny, worn secondhand coats, believed, waited.
And his father had written *luxury*.
He finished the job, took the envelope of cash, left without another word.
Hands shook on the wheel.
He waited days to tell her. But she knew.
“Something’s happened, Eddie. You’ve been distant.”
So he told her. Everything.
She listened without interruption. Only once did she close her eyes, knuckles whitening.
Then she stood, walked to the window. Silence stretched.
Finally, softly: “You know… I feel lighter.”
Edward stared.
“Lighter?”
“Yes. All these years, I wondered—was he hurt? Trapped? Now I know. He just… chose a different life.”
She sat again, elbows on the table. No anger. No tears. Just exhaustion—the kind that follows a long journey’s end.
“I don’t have to wait anymore. No more guessing. I’m free.”
“Sorry I found it,” he murmured.
She shook her head. “Don’t be. Things happen for a reason. Even if we don’t see it at first.”
Then she hugged him—like she had when he was small, scraping his knees.
“You’re the greatest gift from that life. And he…” A pause. “Gave me you. So it wasn’t for nothing.”
That evening, Edward sat by the pond behind the cottage, watching the sunset bleed into pink.
He realised: He didn’t want to see his father. Didn’t want explanations, excuses, awkward handshakes.
The man he’d longed for never existed. His real father lived in mansions, wore tailored suits.
But *his* father—the one he remembered—was just a ghost now. Warm, untarnished, frozen in childhood.
And that was where he’d stay.
To live was to let go. To walk unburdened.
That night, Edward finally did.
