A Fortunate Mistake
I grew up without a father, raised by my mum and my grandmother. The longing for a fathers presence struck me from my earliest days at nursery. But in primary school it was even worse.
I envied other children my age who proudly walked home hand in hand with their tall, strong dads, played together, rode bikes and drove in their cars. What hurt most was seeing fathers hug, kiss their sons or daughters, pick them up and laugh together. From a distance, watching all that, I used to think, What happiness that must be
I saw my father tooonly in a single photograph, smiling just like the other dads. But not smiling at me.
Mum told me he was an explorer, living somewhere far up Northa place so remote he couldnt come home. Hed gone off to work there, but sent birthday presents regularly without fail.
It was in Year Three that I painfully realised there was no explorer-father at all. Never had been.
I overheard Mum telling Grandma that she felt dreadful lying to megiving out presents on behalf of someone whod really abandoned us. He lived well, she said, but never called me, never wished me happy birthday, never sent greetings at Christmas or New Year.
Oliver loves those holidays so much, Mum sighed. Those are the only times he feels any connectioneven to someone distant and mysterious, but still his own.
So before my next birthday, I declared to Mum and Gran that I didnt want any more presents from Dad, who didnt exist. Just bake my favourite Victoria sponge cake, and thats all I need.
We lived modestly, just on Mums and Grans small wages. When I became a student, I worked weekends as a porter at the train station and in shops.
One winter, my neighbour, Charlie, asked if Id fill in for him as Father Christmas around the childrens nurseries and homes. I turned down the nursery gigstoo daunting, all that pantomime, working alongside a helper.
Instead, I agreed to visit individual homes on requestjust me, Father Christmas, on New Years Day. Charlie handed me a notebook filled with poems, riddles, and a list of households.
The routine was simple, easy to memorisenot like sitting an advanced maths exam. But I worried Id make a fool of myself.
My first evening, to my surprise, went off without a hitch. Visiting each child, I returned home exhausted but proud and, counting up my earnings, nearly danced with excitement. In half a year carrying crates and bags every weekend, I hadnt made that much.
From then on, I took up the Father Christmas gig every winter and joined student building crews in the summer.
My personal life didnt see much success during those yearsthe work and studies left no time. There were a few dates, but nothing serious.
Ill graduate, get a good job, earn a decent salary, sort out my lifethen I can think about a family, Id tell myself.
After finishing university, I got work as an engineernot a fancy position, but steady. I thought about buying a used car, desperate for the freedom of my own wheels, but we only had a modest family income and couldnt quite afford it. So I took up the Father Christmas gig once more.
Mum pulled my old costume from the wardrobe and spruced it up with lots of glitter. The beard was whiter and fluffier than everit hid my face well. I stuck on some bushy eyebrows and, looking in the mirror, thought, Not bad, Oliver.
Unexpectedly, Mum sighed and said quietly, Oliver, you really ought to have your own children, yet youre always entertaining someone elses.
Ive got time, I waved her off. Rightwish me luck, Mum! I kissed her cheek and went out to earn money.
A week before New Years, I ran an advert in the local paper. Fifteen requests came in.
After working through six addresses, I crossed them out and saw my next: Garden Street, 6, Flat 19. I hopped off the bus and headed there.
Garden Street was near the citys edge, and the street lights were poor. But I soon found number 6, went up to the second floor, and rang the bell.
A boy of about five or six opened the door.
In my wood cabin at the edge of the copse, I live I began, as always.
But the boy cut me off: We didnt ask for Father Christmas!
Ah, but I visit good children whether Im invited or not, I replied quickly, though a bit flustered. Is Mum or Dad at home?
NoMums at Grandma Tonis next door, helping her with a jab. Wont be long.
Whats your name, then?
Oliver.
What a coincidence! I was surprisedits not every day you meet your namesake.
Of course, I didnt let on. Father Christmas doesnt share his first name!
Oliver, wheres your Christmas tree?
In my room.
He led me in by the hand to a small, simply furnished flat. On the coffee table, instead of a tree, stood a branch of pine in a tall jar, decorated with tiny baubles and blinking coloured lights.
Two matching frames sat nearbyone of a man, one of a woman.
Looking closer, I froze in shockmy own student photo stared back at me!
No, this cant be
I peered again. Yesit was unmistakably me, in my old windbreaker. And beside it, a photo of a womanSophie Turner.
Wed met years ago, working one summer with a student building crew.
Her picture wasnt from student days anymore. Instead, a gentle but sad-eyed woman gazed out, hauntingly like the cheerful Sophie I remembered.
Whos that? I asked, my voice trembling.
Thats Mum.
Your Mum?
My Mum.
Is her name Sophie? slipped out before I could think.
Oh wow, you guessed! You really are Father Christmasmaybe youre real after all! I never thought they existed.
And this one? I pointed to my own photo, sensing the truth.
Thats my Dad! Hes a real explorer, Mum says. He lives and works on a huge piece of iceleft when I was very little, so Ive never seen him or remember him. He always sends presents for Christmas and my birthday though. And this New Year, Ill find his gift under my pillow. Father Christmas likes to hide them there.
I was stunned, suddenly reliving my own childhoodthe imaginary explorer-father. Was explorer up north the universal excuse for absent dads?
Now I was one of those dads myself.
My heart ached. I remembered how wild but brief my romance with Sophie had been Wed swapped numbers after parting, but my phone was stolen before I could call her.
I often thought of her. But exams, work, and friends crowded her from my mind, out of my life
Turns out, shed been living here the whole time. Not only did she remember me, she was bringing up our son, with our photos side by side.
I was about to confess the truth to young Oliver when the door opened and Sophie stepped in.
Sorry Im late, darlingthe ambulance had to take Grandma Toni to hospital.
She looked up and gasped, We didnt book Father Christmas!
Tears of joy spilled from my eyes. I yanked off my hat, beard, and eyebrows.
Oliver?! Sophie whispered, sinking onto the hallway stool.
She burst out cryingso loudly young Oliver was a little frightened.
But Sophie quickly gathered herself for our son. I told him Id flown down from the North, donned the Father Christmas suit as a surprise for him and Mum.
He was absolutely thrilledlaughed, sang, recited poems, held our hands tightly as though scared Id vanish again like before.
He didnt mention the present, knowing Father Christmas would slip Dads gift beneath his pillow.
Oliver fell asleep, and Sophie and I talked the whole nightlike wed never been apart.
Next morning, I dashed out for another present. Only then did I realise Id mixed up the addressesId come to 6A instead of 6, missing the letter in the dark.
But in truth, Id found the right placethe place fate meant me to be.
What an amazingly fortunate mistake, I thought, grinning.
Now were togetherthe three of ushappier than ever.
Mum and Gran adore Oliver, their grandson and great-grandson, Oliver Oliver-son!
If I’ve learnt anything, it’s that sometimes our deepest wishes are answered when we least expect itand that lifes greatest gifts can come from the happiest accidents.
