**Diary Entry**
*Where did you get this photo?* William paled at the sight of the missing father he’d spent decades searching for.
When William got home from work, his mother was on the balcony, tending to her hanging flower baskets. She leaned over them, gently adjusting the leaves, her face glowing with quiet contentment.
“Mum, you’re always busy as a bee,” William said, hanging up his jacket before hugging her shoulders. “On your feet all day again?”
“It’s hardly work,” she laughed, brushing it off. “It’s good for the soul. Look how everything’s blooming. Smells like Kew Gardens out here.”
Her laughter was soft, warm—just as he remembered. The sweet floral scent took him back to childhood, when they’d lived in a cramped flat and their “garden” was a neglected pot of aloe on the windowsill.
So much had changed since then.
Now, she spent most of her time at the cottage he’d bought her for her sixtieth—modest but with a sprawling garden where she grew whatever she pleased. In spring, she nurtured seedlings; in summer, she fussed over her greenhouse; in autumn, she jarred preserves from her own harvest. Winter was just the wait for spring to return.
But William knew—no matter how she smiled—her eyes still held a quiet sorrow. One that wouldn’t fade until she saw the man she’d waited for all these years.
His father.
He’d left one ordinary morning for work and never came back. William was five. His mother said he’d kissed her temple that day, winked at William, told him, “Be good,” and walked out—unaware it was the last time.
There’d been police reports, searches. Relatives whispered—*maybe he ran off, another family, something must’ve happened*. But his mother always said the same:
“He wouldn’t have left us. He couldn’t come back.”
Even now, thirty years later, William believed it. His father wouldn’t have abandoned them. He *couldn’t*.
After school, William studied engineering—though he’d secretly wanted to be a journalist. But he needed to stand on his own feet. His mother worked nights as a care assistant, never complaining, even when exhaustion made her legs ache and her eyes burn.
“We’ll be alright, love,” she’d say. “Just focus on your studies.”
He did. And at night, he scoured missing persons databases, trawled old records, posted on forums. Hope didn’t fade—it hardened into something unshakable. He grew strong, knowing he had to be his mother’s anchor.
His first proper job cleared her debts. Then came the savings account, the cottage, and the day he told her, “That’s it, Mum. You can rest now.”
She cried openly that day. He just held her and said, “You deserve this a thousand times over.”
Now, William dreamed of his own family. A home smelling of roast dinners and Sunday cakes, packed with laughter. But for now, he worked extra jobs—fixing computers, installing smart systems, saving to start his own business. People loved him—polite, patient, never pushy.
Yet one dream never dimmed: finding his father. He wanted the man to walk through their door one day and say, *I’m sorry. I couldn’t come back sooner.*
They’d understand. Forgive. Hold each other. Finally, *finally*, things would be as they should.
Sometimes, William still heard his father’s voice—felt the memory of being lifted high, his father’s laugh as he said, *Ready to fly, champ?* before tossing him into the air and catching him tight.
The night before, he’d dreamt of him again—standing by a riverbank in an old coat, calling out. His face was blurred, but the eyes—grey, deep, familiar—were his.
Later, an odd job came through a friend. A wealthy family in a gated estate needed their home network set up. *Arrive after six*, they’d said. *The lady of the house will show you in.*
William arrived on time. Past the security gate, a grand house loomed—white columns, floor-to-ceiling windows. A young woman answered, elegant in a silk dress.
“You’re the technician? Come in. Dad’s office is this way—he’s abroad, but wanted this sorted today.”
He followed her down a hall that smelled of expensive polish. The house was immaculate—a grand piano, oil paintings, framed photos. The office was all dark wood, green lamps, a sleek monitor.
William got to work—until his gaze caught a photo on the wall. A young couple. The man in a grey suit, smiling.
Time had aged the face, but William knew. *Him.*
He stood, stepped closer. The same jawline, the same dimple when he smiled.
“Who… who’s in this photo?” he asked unevenly.
The woman tilted her head. “My dad. Do you know him?”
William’s pulse pounded. He forced out, “I… think so. Could you tell me how your parents met?”
She hesitated but answered. “Dad’s had an unusual life. He was an engineer once—met Mum on holiday, fell in love…” She studied him. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
He nodded stiffly. As she left to fetch water, he did something he shouldn’t have.
A folder—*Personal.* Password-protected. He typed his birth date. It opened.
Scans. Old photos. A nameless text file. He clicked it.
The words hit like a confession.
*I knew it was wrong. From the start. You were beautiful, clever, wealthy—and in love. I was nobody. Just arrived, just starting out. Back then, it felt like a chance. I lied about being single. Thought it would be a fling. Never meant for it to go this far. But then—meeting your parents, the wedding plans… I didn’t know how to escape. Your father’s money, your trust—they trapped me. New documents. A clean passport. No marriage stamp. I’m not proud. But I told myself it was kinder—Lydia would move on, my boy was too young to remember. Now? I barely recognise myself. I live in luxury but wake up guilty. There’s no way back now.*
William sat back, numb. Anger? Pity? Disgust?
His mother—who’d saved every penny, who’d waited, who’d never let herself live—had been left. While he’d built a new life in wealth.
William finished the job quickly, took the envelope of cash, and left. In the car, his hands shook.
He waited days to tell her. But she knew.
“Something’s wrong, love. You’ve been distant.”
So he told her—the house, the photo, the file.
She listened silently. Only once did she shut her eyes, her knuckles whitening.
When he finished, she stood by the window a long time. Then, softly:
“You know… I feel lighter.”
“*Lighter?*”
“Yes. All these years, I wondered. *Why? Is he hurt? Is he suffering?* Now I know. He’s fine. He just… chose differently.”
She sat at the table, her eyes not angry or tearful—just weary.
“I don’t have to wait anymore. I’m free.”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry I found it.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be. Everything happens for a reason. Just takes time to see it.”
She hugged him—like she had when he’d scraped his knees as a boy.
“You’re the best part of that life. And he… gave me you. So it wasn’t all for nothing.”
That evening, William sat by the pond, watching the sunset.
He realised he didn’t want to see his father. Didn’t want excuses, handshakes, hollow apologies.
The man he’d dreamed of didn’t exist. His *real* father wasn’t the man in tailored suits—he was the memory. Warm, untainted. And that was where he’d stay.
To live was to let go. Not to drag the past behind you.
That night, William finally did.
