A Fortunate Mistake
I grew up in a single-parent household, just my mum and my grandmother looking after me. From the time I was in nursery, I yearned for a father it was something I felt missing, even at that young age.
It became especially hard in primary school. I envied my friends who proudly walked hand in hand with their tall, strong dads, laughing, riding bikes or being driven around in their cars. Id get a knot in my stomach watching fathers scoop up their sons or daughters, sharing warm hugs and cheerful laughter. Observing all of this, Id think, What a joy that must be
As for my own father, the only time I ever saw his face was in a single photograph his smile shining for the camera, but not for me. Mum used to say he was an explorer, living up north, so distant he couldnt come and visit. Hed gone away to work, but he still sent birthday gifts, every year without fail.
In year three, I finally uncovered the truth my explorer father was just a comforting story. By chance, Id overheard mum telling gran she couldnt keep pretending anymore, acting as if his gifts came from a dad whod abandoned us. He lived well enough, but had never once rung his son or sent a birthday or Christmas greeting.
Mum, those holidays mean the world to Arthur, shed said. On those days, he feels some connection, however distant and imaginary, to someone who ought to care.
So, before my next birthday, I told my mum and gran not to bother with gifts from the made-up father. All I wanted was my favourite cake chocolate sponge with whipped cream baked just for me.
We lived modestly on mum and grans small salaries, so when I became a student, I took shifts as a porter at the train station and in local shops to help out. One winter, my neighbour, Steve, suggested I could dress as Father Christmas in nursery schools and make home visits to earn a little extra at the end of the year.
I shied away from the nurseries it felt too complicated and you needed to act out scenes with a partner. But the solo appointments, visiting families on Christmas Eve, seemed much less intimidating.
Steve handed me a notebook with poems and riddles, and a list of addresses. The routine was simple easier to memorise than anything Id faced for my degree though the anxiety of embarrassing myself stuck with me. Yet, to my surprise, the first round went brilliantly. When I got home after a long day, delighting children, I counted up my earnings and nearly danced for joy. I hadnt made that much in six months schlepping boxes.
After that, I donned the red suit every winter, and joined student building crews in the summer. With so much going on, I didnt really date much. There were girls, but I never got close to marriage. I kept dreaming, Once I finish uni, land a reputable job, and get myself sorted Then Id think about a family.
After graduating, working as an engineer on a junior salary, I set my sights on buying a second-hand car. We were comfortable, but not enough for my own wheels. So, yet again, I took up the Father Christmas gig.
Mum pulled my costume out of storage, revamped it with extra glitter, and brushed up the bushy white beard I looked the part, and my face was completely hidden. I carefully glued on thick eyebrows and checked my reflection, feeling satisfied with my disguise.
As I was about to leave, mum sighed, Arthur, you should be entertaining your own children by now, not just everyone elses.
Theres time, mum, I replied, kissing her cheek as I headed off in search of extra cash.
A week before Christmas, I posted an advert in the local newspaper, and soon had fifteen bookings. After ticking off six from the list, I read the next address: 6 Orchard Road, Flat 19.
I got off the bus and walked down the dark, nearly suburban Orchard Road. It was dimly lit, but house number 6 stood out. Upstairs on the second floor, I rang the bell.
A boy, around six, opened the door. I live in a little cottage at the edge of the woods I began my Father Christmas routine.
But he interrupted, We didnt invite Father Christmas!
I dont wait to be invited by good children, I replied, though I felt a bit thrown. Is your mum or dad in?
No. Mums just popped next door to Gran Annies for her medicine. Shell be back soon.
Whats your name? I asked.
Arthur.
Funny coincidence, I thought, surprised.
I caught myself. No need to tell him I was Arthur too today, I was Father Christmas.
Wheres your Christmas tree, Arthur?
In my room, he said, leading me by the hand to a small room furnished sparingly.
On the coffee table by his bed, instead of a tree, sat a simple pine branch in a large glass jar, decorated with tiny baubles and a colourful string of lights. Beside it, two framed photos one of a man, one of a woman.
I leaned in, and almost stopped breathing. The man in the photo was me.
This cant be, I thought, staring in disbelief. The picture on the left was my student snap in a windbreaker.
The right had a woman Emily Johnson. Id met her one summer while working on a construction team for students. Her photo was more recent but still reminded me so much of that lively, young Emily.
Whos this? I asked, my voice trembling.
Thats my mum.
Your mum?
Yeah.
Is her name Emily? I blurted.
Wow! How did you know? So you really are Father Christmas? Arthur grinned wide. I thought he didnt exist!
And whos this? I pointed to my own face, heart racing as I realised Arthur was my son.
My dad. Hes a real explorer! Mum says he lives far away on a big iceberg. He left when I was a baby Ive never met him or remember him. But he always sends presents for my birthday and Christmas. And this Christmas, Ill find a gift under my pillow. Father Christmas likes to hide them there.
Stunned, my childhood flashed before me, remembering my own explorer father a story created by my mum. Was this what mums did with missing fathers, sending them off to the polar wastes?
And now, I was one of those missing dads. The weight of guilt was crushing. I recalled the brief, intense romance with Emily Wed swapped numbers at the end, but Id never called. My phone had been stolen days later, and life swept away thoughts of her, leaving her faded in my memory.
Yet here she was, raising our son, keeping my photo beside hers. I longed to reveal myself as his father when Emily stepped inside.
Sorry for the delay, Arthur, she called, her voice gentle. Gran Annie had to go to hospital.
Seeing me, she exclaimed, Oh! We didnt book Father Christmas!
Tears of joy spilled down my cheeks as I pulled off the hat, beard, and brows.
Arthur? She gasped, slumping onto the hall ottoman before bursting into tears so heartfelt even young Arthur looked stunned.
But Emily gathered herself for his sake, and I explained that Id come from the North Pole as Father Christmas to surprise them both.
Arthur was beside himself singing, reciting poems, clutching our hands as if afraid Id disappear again. He hardly noticed his present; he knew Father Christmas would hide his dads gift under his pillow.
When he fell asleep, Emily and I talked late into the night, almost forgetting the time lost between us.
In the morning, as I went out for another present, I realised Id visited the wrong address by mistake 6A instead of 6. In the dark, Id missed the letter. But fate had led me to exactly the place I needed to be.
What a lucky mistake, I thought, smiling.
Now, the three of us are together, and I couldnt be happier. Mum and gran dote on young Arthur John their grandson and great-grandson.
Lifes unexpected turns may seem frightening or discouraging, but sometimes, mistakes lead us right where our heart truly belongs. The most precious things in life are rarely planned and sometimes, fate steps in to mend what once seemed lost.
