**A Call from the Past: The Return of a Father**
I closed the fridge door, wiping my hands on a cloth.
“Right, that should do it. It’ll freeze now, but we’d better check,” I said to the woman. “Have you got an empty plastic bowl? Fill it with water and pop it in the freezer. I’ll call tonight—if the water’s frozen, it’s working properly.”
Just then, my phone rang again. Another customer, I thought, and answered.
“Hello, you’ve reached household appliance repairs. What needs fixing? Yeah, I’m Edward Harrison. Wait—what did you say? My father?” My grip on the phone nearly faltered.
The voice introduced himself—James Harrison. It took a moment to register: this was my dad, a man I hadn’t seen or heard from in over twenty years. My heart hammered, and broken memories swirled in my head.
“And what… do you want?” I stumbled over my words, unsure how to address him. “To meet and talk? Sure, why not, just twenty years late. Look, I’m on a job—I’ll call you back.” I ended the call and muttered under my breath, “Bloody hell.”
Turning up after all this time. Must be after something. What, though? His son’s grown up, he’s getting old—probably wants money. How old is he now? Over fifty, I’d bet. Course he wants cash. I scoffed, turning back to work.
“So, all sorted?” I told the woman. “I’ll ring tonight—just check the bowl. If it’s frozen, your freezer’s fine.”
She thanked me, and I headed to my next job—an elderly woman with a leaking washing machine. She was chatty, insisting I stay for tea and biscuits. The fix was simple: just reseating the rubber seal on the door. Another repairman had quoted her a ridiculous price, but I charged barely anything—squeezing pensioners wasn’t right. She beamed, saying she hadn’t met kindness like mine in years. I smiled awkwardly, sipped my tea, and promised to return if anything else broke.
But my mind was stuck on that call. Hazy memories surfaced. My parents split when I was five. Dad drank, lost his job. Mum cried but believed his promises. One evening, when she was at work, he picked me up from nursery. In the park, he slumped onto a bench, pulled out a beer, and started whining to me—his five-year-old—about how Mum didn’t respect him and how unfair life was. Then he drank until he passed out. I tried shaking him awake, but he just swatted me away. Passersby stared. Humiliated, I left him there, wandering alone until a neighbour found me.
Mum didn’t yell when she found out. She just said quietly, “Go. You let our boy walk off alone. What kind of father does that?”
Dad moved away but sometimes sent money and toys. Mum would smirk. “We’re fine without him, aren’t we, Eddie?”
When I was ten, she introduced me to Nigel. “This is Mum’s new partner. He’s going to take care of us now. Fancy a new bike?”
Nigel was decent enough—he loved Mum—but he never felt like a father. Part of her love was his now, and I was the outsider.
That evening, I reluctantly called Dad back. He answered fast.
“Eddie, let’s meet. The old fountain on High Street, tomorrow at seven. Can you make it?”
“Yeah, fine,” I grunted.
Mum once said Nigel wanted to adopt me, give me his name. “We’re a family now.” But I refused. I needed to stay Edward Harrison—that invisible thread to Dad still mattered. She wanted to erase him, but I kept waiting—for what, I didn’t know. Eventually, I realised nothing was coming.
Walking to the fountain the next evening, I’d already decided: if he asked for money, I’d give it, and that’d be it. He’d sent presents—this would square things. Mum had Nigel—she wouldn’t care.
“Probably just ashamed,” she’d say, accepting his parcels.
At the fountain, I spotted an older man rising from the bench. *No sappy lines like “finally found you, son,”* I thought. And please let him be sober.
“Evening, Eddie,” he said, offering his hand.
“Evening.” I shook it, noticing his grip was firm.
“Let’s be clear,” Dad said. “I promised your mum I’d stay away while you were young. She despised me, and you were scared of me. I moved cities. Couldn’t find work—drank myself stupid. Then I nearly died—ended up in hospital. The nurse who patched me up became my wife. She had a daughter, Lily. I raised her as my own. Started fixing cars, appliances—anything. Built a business. But you’re grown now. You’re my only blood. I’ve got something to ask…”
I braced myself. *Here it comes—money.* But he didn’t look like a drunk—well-dressed, steady-eyed. My same eyes, even the same habit of shoving hands in pockets. Could’ve been a proper dad.
“Eddie, I’ve got a repair firm with a mate,” he continued. “Figured out we’re cut from the same cloth. I’ve moved back, brought the family. Planning a new branch here. Be my partner, and one day, it’s yours. Think it over, son. I know I’m a stranger. But I want to give you what I couldn’t before. A proper father.”
I was stunned. Not here for money—here to offer work. Within days, I agreed.
Bit by bit, I rediscovered my father. The hurt faded. Working together, we fitted like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Now, I don’t do house calls alone. We run a big repair firm, and I still give discounts to pensioners.
And I proposed to my girlfriend, Emily. We’d been together two years, but I’d hesitated—until now. I knew I was ready to be a husband, a father.
That night, Dad said, “I was a fool, lost my way. I’m sorry, son. Time’s no excuse. Age isn’t either. You’ve got to be better.”
I forgave him. So much can be set right—while there’s still time.
