13May2025
Tonight I sit at the kitchen table, the light from the old kettle flickering, and try to make sense of all that has happened. It all began, absurdly enough, with my fathers sudden demand: Prove youre my son. I should have kicked him down the stairs, but instead I heard only a single, baffling question: How? He answered, Buy me a house.
***
The maternity ward at StMarys Hospital was a familiar stage. I, Edward Turner, stood on the steps with my camera ready, my face frozen in awe. My mates crowded around, shouting encouragement. Mary, cradling our newborn son in her arms, beamed at me with a grin that showed every one of her thirtytwo teeth.
Hows he? I asked, my voice hoarse from the sleepless nights spent worrying, calling the hospital every hour, pacing the hallway. When Mary went into labour I barely slept at all, my nerves stretched thin. The doctors mentioned a slight complication, and I rushed home, exhausted and jittery. I was still on call at the ward when the baby finally emerged.
Mary lifted the blanket, revealing a tiny, wrinkled face. Little Andrew, still asleep, had yet to meet his father. When he wakes, hell get to know me.
I look exactly like the babies in my photos, I whispered.
Youre a dead ringer! Mary exclaimed, delighted. The nose, the lips its like a copy!
I could not take my eyes off him, nodding at every word.
Andrew Turner, I announced solemnly, welcome to the world and to our family.
Andrew, still halfasleep, frowned and let out a tiny, disgruntled whine, as if protesting my proclamation.
The birth was a celebration. Our flat was swamped with flowers, presents and wellmeaning relatives who declared how much he resembled me. I spent the whole day holding him, only handing the bottle to Mary when she needed a break. We were happy at least then.
***
Sixteen years later.
Life had become a swamp of endless chores. The romance had evaporated, leaving only the smell of burnt chips and socks strewn across every room. Arguments were commonplaceabout money, about how to raise a teenager, about who took out the bins. Mary and I had become experts at finding petty grievances in the most innocent situations.
Yet Andrew was the anchor that kept our battered boat afloat. Without him, we would have divorced long ago. He loved his mother, clung to his father, and somehow we both still felt a thread of togetherness as we raised him.
Andrew inherited my looks and my love of football. I, a former semiprofessional player, drove him to training, and when there were no sessions wed head out to the back garden with a ball. As a dad, I wasnt perfect, but I tried.
When Andrew turned sixteen, I planned a trip to my mothers cottage in Yorkshirea yearly pilgrimage Id never taken Andrew on before.
What will we do while youre away? he asked.
Nothing special, Mary shrugged. Youve got your holidays, youve passed your exams. Ill be on leave soon. Well sort something out.
Mom, why have we never visited my grandparents? Andrew pressed, his eyes searching hers. Ive never even seen them.
Marys smile faltered. Shed assumed hed grown out of it, that hed understand on his own.
Its complicated, she began hesitantly. Your grandparents never liked me. They thought I wasnt right for you. We never mended that rift, so they rarely invited me.
So Im not a grandson? he asked, a hint of hurt in his voice.
In a manner of speaking, yes. Dont take it personally.
Im not a little boy anymore, Mum.
It was uncomfortable, but Andrew didnt let it crush him. After all, they were strangers. Yet the tension lingered, and soon began to affect everything.
When I returned from Yorkshire, something in me had shifted. On the surface I was the same, but the friction that had been simmering for years boiled over, especially with Andrew.
Normally on Fridays wed go to his football training together. That week I said, Im not going. Go on by yourself.
He was surprised but didnt make a fuss. The following Friday I cancelled again, then the next, and soon I was barely finding time for him at all. My replies became curt, sometimes I ignored him outright. He tried to talk, but I was either busy or tossed out snide remarks like, Youre sixteen; sort your own problems, see your mates.
Then, one evening, I snapped, Youre not my son.
Andrew stared, frozen, as if waiting for a joke. His eyes searched mine for a hint of humour, but all he found was coldness.
Mary gasped. Edward! What are you saying?
Im being honest, I replied flatly. Hes not my son. You thought nobody would find out? Everyone knows now.
Andrews fists clenched on the armrest. He was on the brink of a fight.
Mary tried to calm him, saying I was just tired, in a bad mood. But Andrew could not understand how a father could say such a thing to his own child.
Youre not my father either, then! he shouted.
Andrew, stop, please Mary pleaded, Hell apologise later.
The situation worsened daily. No conversation helped; Marys voice grew hoarse from pleading. I kept spouting, I dont want to feed another mans child. Andrew swung between rage and tears, and Mary, exhausted from watching her son dissolve, finally filed for divorce.
I was forced out of the flat that belonged to Mary. I left, divorced, and walked away with my head held high. How could a man who had been a present, loving father for over a year become a stranger who wouldnt even look at his own son?
Andrew could not grasp it.
Mum, are you hiding something? Am I not really your son? Or am I adopted?
Andrew, youre our son, not adopted, Mary said, trying to reassure him. I think I suppose the grandparents said things while you were in the countryside with your dad. Thats why we never met them again.
He stared, processing the words.
Why didnt they say it earlier? Why didnt you think about it all these years? he asked.
Mary shook her head. She didnt know either. She had suggested a paternity test, but I refused.
From sixteen onward, Andrew lived essentially fatherless. It felt as if the life before that point were a dream. I resurfaced once when Mary remarried, sending Andrew a message:
See? I was right.
What about? he replied, but I blocked himan adult decision, perhaps, but one that only deepened the wedge.
When Andrew turned thirty, he decided to close the circle. He called me.
Hey, he said, trying to sound casual. How are you?
Hey, I answered, voice flat. Nothing much.
Id like you to come over, for a chat. If not as father and son, then as old friends.
I agreed. I arrived at his modest home; he met me at the doorway, led me into the living room, and we sat on the couch in heavy silence.
How are you? I finally asked.
Fine, I muttered, not meeting his eyes.
I have so many things to say, but Im not sure I still want to, Andrew began, I just want to understand why you said I wasnt your son. We look alike, were practically twins!
I shrugged. I still think that way, I said, Fourteen years havent erased my memory.
Why? he pressed. You refused the test. You seemed certain.
I shrugged again. Just a feeling.
What does that even mean? You were my dad all my life! he shouted.
It was in the past, I replied. I dont think I owe you an explanation. I used to consider you my son.
What changed? he asked.
I dont know, I said, spreading my hands. I just dont believe it any longer.
He slammed his fist on the arm of the sofa. You dont believe? Thats why you walked away? He stood, looking at me. Youre wrong. You are my father, and you know it.
A pause.
Then, out of nowhere, I said, Prove youre my son.
I should have kicked him out, but instead I asked, How?
Buy me a house, I said, halfseriously. A loving son would do that for his old dad. Then maybe Ill believe were a family.
Andrew stared, bewildered. Are you serious?
Very, I nodded. If youre really my son, its only natural to help your parents in their old age.
He realised the absurdity, but somewhere deep down he still hoped for some reconciliation. The conversation ended with nothing resolved. I drained half a bottle of red wine and left.
Andrew opened another bottle, but never uncorked it.
What was I supposed to do? Buy a house? Take out a mortgage? Spend years of my life trying to convince a man who refused to recognise me as his son? Was it worth it?
He thought it over, weighed the pros and cons, and finally decided it wasnt necessary. Hed grown up, lived his life without a father, and could continue to do so.
Fine, have your house, he whispered, Keep your pockets deeper.
***
Years later Andrew moved to Italy, met a woman from Manchester, and they had a daughter. They eventually returned to England, bought a house of their own, and I stopped thinking about him. The chapter was closed.
Then, out of the blue, my phone rang.
Edward, its Andrew. How are you? Where are you now? I heard my own voice, rusty with uncertainty. Heard youve settled far away.
Yes, but Im back now.
Congratulations on the wedding and the baby, albeit a bit late.
Thanks, he replied.
May I visit? See you, see my granddaughter?
I felt the old tug of inevitability.
Do you want us to talk?
Yes.
Then prove it, he said.
What am I supposed to prove? I asked, bewildered.
That youre my father, he answered.
The absurdity of it all finally hit me. I realised that after all the years of shouting, blaming, and demanding proof, the only thing that mattered was the simple truth wed been avoiding: love doesnt need a contract, a house, or a test. It lives in the everyday moments, in the way a father once held his newborn son, in the way a son later opened a door for his old man.
I closed the diary with this thought: sometimes the hardest thing to do is to let go of the need to be proven right, and instead just be present for those we care about. That is the lesson I carry forward.
