**Diary Entry**
*6th October, 2023*
“Where did you get this photo?” Edward paled as he stared at the image of his missing father.
When Edward returned home from work, his mother was watering the flowers on the balcony. Leaning over the hanging planters, she gently adjusted the leaves. Her face glowed with quiet contentment.
“Mum, busy as a bee, aren’t you?” Edward took off his jacket, walked over, and hugged her shoulders. “On your feet all day again?”
“Oh, this isn’t work,” she waved him off, smiling. “It’s good for the soul. Look how everything’s blooming—smells like a proper garden up here.”
She laughed softly, the way she always did. Edward breathed in the floral scent and remembered their tiny flat years ago, where their only “garden” had been a potted Kalanchoe on the windowsill, always shedding leaves.
So much had changed.
Now his mother spent her days at the cottage he’d bought for her last birthday—modest but with a sprawling garden where she could grow whatever she liked. Spring meant seedlings, summer was for greenhouse work, autumn for bottling preserves. In winter, she just waited for spring again.
But Edward knew that, despite her smiles, a quiet sorrow lingered in her eyes. A longing that wouldn’t fade until she saw the man she’d waited for all these years.
His father. He’d left for work one distant morning and never returned. Edward had been five. His mother swore he’d kissed her forehead, winked at Edward, said, “Be good,” and walked out—never knowing it was goodbye.
There’d been police reports, searches. Whispers from relatives and neighbours—”Maybe he ran off,” “Another family?” “Or something worse.” But his mother always said the same:
“He wouldn’t have left us. He just couldn’t come back.”
That belief stayed with Edward, even now, thirty years later. His father wouldn’t have abandoned them. He simply couldn’t.
Edward had studied engineering, though he’d secretly wanted to write. But he needed to stand on his own feet. His mother worked nights as a hospital cleaner, never complaining, even when her legs ached and her eyes burned from exhaustion. “It’s fine, love,” she’d say. “Just focus on your studies.”
So he studied. And at night, he scoured missing persons’ databases, dug through old records, posted on forums. Hope didn’t fade—it hardened into resolve, shaped him. He grew strong, knowing he had to be his mother’s rock.
When he landed his first proper job, he cleared her debts, opened a savings account, bought that cottage. “You’re done working, Mum,” he told her.
She’d wept then, openly. He just held her and said, “You deserved this a thousand times over.”
Now Edward dreamed of his own family—a home smelling of roast dinners and fresh bread, Sundays filled with laughter. But for now, he worked, saved, planned to start his own business. He’d always been good with his hands.
And yet, one dream burned brightest—finding his father. He imagined him walking through their door one day, saying, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come back sooner.” They’d understand, forgive, embrace—finally whole.
Sometimes, Edward still remembered his father’s voice. How he’d scoop him up and say, “Ready for take-off, champ?”—tossing him high before catching him tight.
That night, Edward dreamed of him again. Standing by a river in an old coat, calling out. His face was blurred, but his eyes—grey, deep, familiar—were the same.
Edward’s job paid the bills, but starting a business meant side work—fixing computers, setting up networks. Elderly clients loved him—polite, patient, never pushy.
Tonight’s call came through a friend. A wealthy family in a gated estate needed their home network configured.
“Come after six,” they said. “The lady of the house will be in.”
Edward arrived on time. Security waved him through to a grand house with white columns. A young woman—slim, elegant—answered.
“You’re the technician? Dad’s study is this way.”
He followed her down a hall smelling of expensive perfume. The house was immaculate—piano in the lounge, framed photos on the walls. The study was all dark wood and leather, a sleek monitor on the desk.
Edward got to work—until his eyes caught a photo on the wall. A young couple. The man—grey eyes, the same smile—was unmistakable.
His father.
He stood, heart pounding. “Excuse me… who is this?”
The woman blinked. “My dad. Do you know him?”
Edward’s throat tightened. “I… think so.” He forced the next words. “Could you tell me how your parents met?”
She hesitated, then said, “Dad had quite the past. He was an engineer once, met Mum on holiday, fell in love…” She frowned. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
Edward nodded. While she fetched water, he did something reckless. He searched the computer.
A folder—*Personal*. Password-protected. He typed his birthday—it opened. Inside, old photos, documents… and a text file.
His father’s words leapt out:
*”I knew it was wrong. She was beautiful, clever, rich. I was nobody. I lied—said I was single. Thought it’d just be a fling. But it spiralled. Her parents approved, wedding plans started… I was trapped. New identity, new passport. I told myself they’d move on—Lydia would forget, my boy was too young to remember. But now I wake up hating myself. I live in luxury, but I’m a coward. There’s no way back.”*
Edward sat frozen. Anger, pity, disgust—none fit. Just the crushing weight of betrayal. His mother—scrimping, believing, waiting—while his father lived in wealth, rewriting his life.
He finished the job, took the cash, and left in a daze.
Days passed before he told his mother. She listened in silence, only gripping the table until her knuckles whitened.
When he finished, she walked to the window, staring out a long moment. Then, softly:
“You know… I feel lighter.”
Edward frowned. “Lighter?”
“Yes. All these years, I wondered—*why?* Was he hurt? In trouble? Now I know. He just… chose differently.” Her voice was calm. “I don’t have to wait anymore, love. I’m free.”
That evening, Edward sat by the pond, watching the sky turn pink.
He realized he didn’t want to see his father. No explanations, no awkward apologies. The man he’d longed for didn’t exist. His real father was a stranger in a mansion.
The father he’d loved was a memory—warm, fleeting, frozen in childhood. And that was where he’d stay.
To live is to let go. To shed what no longer walks beside you. That night, Edward finally did.
