**Diary Entry – A Call from the Past: The Return of a Father**
I shut the fridge door, wiping my hands on a rag.
“Right, that should do it. It’ll freeze now, but best to check,” I told the lady. “Got an empty plastic bowl? Fill it with water and pop it in the freezer. I’ll ring you tonight—if it’s frozen, it’s working.”
Then my phone buzzed again. Another customer, I thought, answering.
“Hello, appliance repairs. What’s the issue? Yeah, I’m Edward Carter—Edward James Carter, if that matters. Wait, what did you say? My father?” My grip nearly faltered.
The voice introduced himself—James William Carter. It clicked—my dad, who I hadn’t seen or heard from in over twenty years. My pulse quickened, fragmented memories swirling like leaves in a storm.
“What… d’you want?” I stumbled, unsure how to address him. “Meet up and talk? Right, only twenty years late. Look, I’m on a job—I’ll call back.” I ended the call and muttered under my breath, “Well, that’s rich.”
Shows up after all this time. Bound to want something. Money, no doubt. I snorted, turning back to the fridge.
“Sorted,” I told the lady. “Ring me tonight—check the bowl. If it’s frozen, you’re set.”
She thanked me, and I headed to my next job. An elderly woman needed her washing machine fixed—leaking at the door. Chatty sort, she dragged me straight to the kitchen for tea and biscuits. The fix was simple—the rubber seal had slipped. Another repairman had quoted her a small fortune, but I charged barely anything. No conscience in overcharging pensioners. She kept saying she hadn’t met kindness like mine in years. I smiled awkwardly, sipping tea, promising to return if she needed help.
But my mind was stuck on that call. Hazy memories surfaced. My parents split when I was five. Dad drank back then, lost his job. Mum cried but believed his promises. One afternoon, when she was at work, he picked me up from nursery. Stopped at a park bench, pulled out a beer, and whinged to his five-year-old son—how Mum didn’t respect him, how hard life was. Then he drank himself into a stupor, sprawled out, snoring. I was mortified. Tried shaking him awake, but he just batted me away. Passers-by stared. So I walked home alone, got lost—took a neighbour to find me.
Mum didn’t shout that night. Just said quietly, “Leave. You let our boy wander off. What sort of father does that?”
He moved up north. Sent money and toys now and then. Mum would scoff, “We’re fine without him, aren’t we, Eddie?”
When I turned ten, she introduced me to Uncle Mark.
“Love, Uncle Mark wants to marry me. He’ll take care of us. Fancy a new bike?”
Mark was decent—loved Mum, but never quite a father to me. A chunk of her affection went to him, and I felt like an afterthought.
That evening, grudgingly, I scrolled to Dad’s number and called. He answered straight away.
“Edward, let’s meet. Our old high street, by the clock tower. Tomorrow, seven. Can you make it?”
“Fine, I’ll be there,” I grunted.
Mum once said Mark wanted to adopt me, give me his name. “We’re family now.” I refused. Staying Edward James Carter mattered—that invisible tether to Dad. Mum wanted the past erased, but I kept waiting. For what, I didn’t know. Until I realised—nothing.
Walking to the high street the next evening, I’d already decided: if he asked for money, fine, but that’d be it. He’d sent gifts over the years—consider it repaid. Mum had Mark—she wouldn’t care.
“Too ashamed to face us,” she’d say, tossing his parcels aside.
By the clock tower stood an older man. He rose from the bench, meeting me halfway. *No sappy “son, finally reunited” rubbish*, I thought. And please, let him be sober.
“Evening, Edward,” he said, offering a hand.
I shook it. Firm grip.
“Let’s be clear,” Dad started. “I promised your mother I’d stay away while you were young. She hated me; you feared me. I moved up north. Couldn’t find work, drank myself stupid. After one bender, I landed in hospital. The nurse who patched me up became my wife. She had a daughter, Lily—raised her as mine. Started fixing cars, appliances, anything. Built a business. But you’re grown now. I wanted to talk. You’re my only blood. I need to ask—”
I braced. Here it comes—cash. But he didn’t look like a drunk—well-dressed, steady gaze. Same eyes as mine, same ears. Even shoved his hands in his pockets the same way. Could’ve been a proper dad.
“Edward, my mate and I run a repair firm,” he went on. “I see we’re cut from the same cloth. I’ve moved back—brought the family. Planning to leave the branch up there, shift the main business here. Want you as my partner. Take it over one day. Think on it, son. I know I’m a stranger. But I want to give what I couldn’t before. A father’s support.”
I was floored. Expected a handout, got a hand up. A few days later, I agreed.
Bit by bit, I learned who Dad was. Resentment faded. Working together fitted us like puzzle pieces snapping into place. Now, Edward Carter isn’t solo. We run a thriving repair business. Pensioners always get a discount.
And I proposed to my girl, Emily. Two years together, but I’d hesitated. Now I knew—ready to be a husband, a father, a proper man.
That night, Dad said, “I was a fool. Scared, clueless how to live. Sorry, son. Time’s no excuse. Nor’s age. Got to be better.”
I forgave him. So long as we’re breathing, it’s never too late to mend.
