I hadn’t spoken to my father in twelve years. Recently, he sent a postcard with just one word…
Twelve years ago. Oliver was twenty-two. Fresh out of law school.
One word changed everything. “Sorry.” A magic word, like a key to a locked door. Forgiveness gives a second chance. Love gives the strength to take it.
Paint clung stubbornly under his nails. Oliver scrubbed his hands with soap as if trying to wash away the past. Useless.
The water was cold. Biting cold. Like that day—twelve years ago.
The postman delivered the postcard in the morning. It lay on the table like a ticking bomb. Oliver was afraid to even touch it.
His father’s handwriting. Neat, precise, as though drafting a legal verdict.
On the back, just one word. “Sorry.”
That was all. Nothing more.
Twelve years ago. Oliver was twenty-two. Just finished his law degree.
His father sat in his study, reviewing papers. He glanced up when Oliver entered.
“Meet Mr. Harrison tomorrow at nine,” he said. “He’s expecting you.”
Mr. Harrison. His father’s partner. A respected barrister.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
His father set the papers aside. Looked at him carefully. Frowned—as if sensing trouble.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not going to see Mr. Harrison.”
Silence. Long and heavy. The air hummed with tension.
“I don’t understand,” his father said slowly.
“I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
The words hung in the air, heavy as stones.
His father stood. Walked to the window. Turned his back.
“Then what do you want to be?”
“An artist.”
His father spun around. First surprise, then anger.
“An artist?” he repeated. “Are you joking?”
“No. I’m serious.”
Oliver remembered every word of that argument. Every inflection.
“Five years studying law,” his father muttered. “Five years wasted!”
“I did it for you,” Oliver said. “Not for me.”
“For the family! For your future!”
His father paced the room, hands behind his back, face red with fury.
“Artists starve,” he snapped. “Die in poverty.”
“Not all of them.”
“Most. And you’re no exception.”
Oliver pulled a folder from his bag. Sketches. His work.
“Look,” he said.
His father took the folder. Flipped through slowly. His face betrayed nothing.
Oliver waited. Hoped. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d see.
“A hobby,” his father finally said. “A nice hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby. It’s my life.”
His father closed the folder. Placed it on the desk like discarded rubbish.
“Your life is the law,” he said firmly. “The rest is nonsense.”
Now, Oliver turned the postcard over in his hands. Thick, high-quality cardstock.
On the front—Van Gogh’s *Starry Night*.
Irony? Or acknowledgment? Had his father chosen a postcard that symbolized Oliver’s truth? Or was it just chance?
He placed the postcard on the shelf beside a photograph. Him and his father, fishing.
Oliver was ten. His father—young, happy. Not yet hardened by disappointment.
When had it all broken? When had he become so rigid?
After Mum died. Yes, that was it. Oliver was fourteen.
His father shut down. Buried himself in work. Became demanding, as if control could fix what was unfixable.
“Mum would’ve understood,” Oliver had said then. “She loved art.”
Mistake. A terrible mistake.
His father paled. Clenched his fists.
“Don’t!” he shouted. “Don’t bring her into this!”
“But it’s true!”
“The truth is you’re selfish! Thinking only of yourself!”
That argument lasted two hours. Shouting. Accusations. Words like knives.
“You’re a disappointment,” his father said.
“And you’re a tyrant,” Oliver shot back.
His father flung open the door.
“Get out,” he said quietly. “And don’t come back.”
“Dad—”
“Go! Now!”
Oliver packed his things. His hands shook. His chest felt hollow, as if his heart had been ripped out.
His father stood in the hallway. Staring at the wall. Not even looking at him.
“Dad—” Oliver tried one last time.
Silence. Statue-like.
Oliver left. The door slammed behind him. For good.
Twelve years without a word.
Now, Oliver picked up his phone. Dialed his father’s number. His finger hovered over the call button.
What would he even say? “Hello”? After twelve years of silence?
He set the phone down. Walked to the easel. Pulled off the cover.
The painting was nearly finished. His father’s portrait. Painted from memory over a year.
A stern face, but the eyes—sad. Lonely, like a lost boy’s.
That was how Oliver remembered him. Not cruel. Not heartless. Just lost.
He picked up a brush. Added shadows around the eyes. The lines of time.
What did he look like now? Grey-haired, probably. Maybe stooped.
Sixty-eight. An age for looking back. For regrets.
That evening, Oliver visited Emily. His wife sat in the armchair, painting her nails with surgical precision.
“A postcard came,” he said.
“From who?” she asked, not looking up.
“My dad.”
She froze. The brush hovered mid-air.
“What did it say?”
“Sorry.”
She looked at him. Warm sorrow in her eyes.
“What now?”
“I don’t know.”
Emily set down the polish. Hugged him. Silent. A shield against the pain.
“He’s getting old,” she murmured. “Starting to see his mistakes.”
“Too late.”
“Never too late. If there’s love.”
Oliver leaned into her shoulder. Familiar. Safe.
“And if there isn’t any left?”
“There is. Otherwise, why would he write?”
That night, he didn’t sleep. Lay awake, thinking.
His father wasn’t a villain. Just a man afraid. Lost his wife, terrified of losing his son. Trying to control Oliver was his way of controlling his own helplessness. Futile, but human.
Oliver wasn’t blameless either. He’d been sharp. Stubborn. Hadn’t tried to understand.
Twelve years wasted. Like scattered pearls.
At dawn, Oliver dressed. Took the portrait.
“Where are you going?” Emily asked sleepily.
“To see my father.”
She nodded. As if she’d expected it.
“Good luck,” she whispered, kissing his cheek.
The house hadn’t changed. Same fence, same windows. But smaller somehow, hunched with loneliness.
Oliver stood at the gate. His heart pounded like a schoolboy’s before an exam.
He rang the bell. A familiar chime—from childhood.
Slow footsteps.
The door opened. His father. Older. Greyer. But the same eyes.
He stared at Oliver like a ghost.
“Oliver?” he whispered.
“Hi, Dad.”
Silence. A lifetime of unspoken words.
“Come in,” his father said, voice trembling.
The house smelled the same. His mother’s perfume, faint but there.
His childhood drawings still hung in the hallway. Awkward but cherished.
“You kept them?” Oliver asked.
“Of course,” his father said. “They’re yours.”
They sat at the table. His father made tea. His hands shook slightly as he poured.
“Sorry,” he murmured, not meeting Oliver’s eyes.
“Me too.”
His father looked up. Tears welled.
“I was a fool,” he admitted. “A stubborn old fool.”
“We both were.”
Oliver showed him the portrait.
His father stared. Silent. Touched the edge of the canvas.
“Does it look like you?” Oliver asked.
“Too much,” his father said softly.
He stood, went to the cabinet. Pulled out a folder. The same one.
“I kept these,” he said. “All these years.”
Inside—Oliver’s sketches. Preserved like treasure.
“Lately, I’ve realized,” his father added. “You were right. Your mother would’ve supported you.”
Something inside Oliver thawed. Ice melting after twelve winters.
“Forgive me, son,” his father repeated.
“I already have, Dad.”
They spent the day together. Talking. Remembering. Filling the gaps.
His father spoke of work, retirement, how much he’d missed him.
Oliver told him about his art, exhibitions, Emily.
“Bring her to meet me,” his father said.
“I will. She wants to.”
At dusk, Oliver stood to leave. His father walked him to the gate.
“Come again,” he pleaded.
“I will. I promise.”
They hugged.
