A FORTUNATE MISTAKE…
I grew up without a father, just my mum and my grandmother raised me.
Even in nursery, I could feel the absence, that longing for someone to fill the role only a father could.
But primary school was toughest.
I would watch my classmates stride across the playground, hand in hand with their tall, strong dadsplaying football, cycling together, laughing in the glow of paternal love.
My envy burned brightest when I saw those fathers sweep their children into their arms, planting kisses on their foreheads. Their laughter rang out, pure and happy, and I thought, God, what a blessing that must be.
My own father existed only in a single photograph, smiling out at the camera but not at me.
Mum would tell me he was an explorer, living up in the far reaches of Scotlandso far away he couldnt visit, but he never forgot my birthdays. Presents always arrived, every year, signed From Dad.
It wasnt until I was in Year Three that I overheard the truth. Mum confessed to Gran that she was tired of the lietired of pretending to send gifts in my father’s name, a man who had left us behind and never called, not once. No card, no birthday phone call, not even a Merry Christmas.
He adores those holidays, Mum whispered, her voice crumbling. Theyre the only days he feels any connection, however distant, to someone whos supposed to love him.
After hearing that, I asked Mum and Gran to stop with the gifts from the father Id never had.
Just make my favourite cake, Angels Delight, and lets call that enough.
Our life was modesttwo small wages, Mums and Grans.
So when I went to university, I worked as a porter at the train station, lugging boxes at weekends for extra cash.
One December, our neighbour Dave suggested I try playing Father Christmas at local nurseries and for private bookings.
I refused the nursery gigs straightawaytoo theatrical, too daunting, especially teaming up with a partner as Mrs Claus.
But I agreed to home visitsreal homes, one at a time, giving a bit of magic on Christmas Eve.
Dave handed me his notebookpoems, riddles, addresses.
The script was simple, easy enough to memorisenothing like revising for engineering exams. I was nervous, though, terrified Id fluff my lines and spoil the magic.
But the first gig was a surprise success.
That night, after visiting all the children, I slumped home, exhausted but glowing with pride that I hadnt embarrassed myself.
When I counted my earnings, I almost danced on the spotId made more in a week than hauling crates all summer.
After that, I did the Father Christmas rounds every winter, and in summer, I tried my luck on construction sites.
Personal life? Not much to write about. I was too busy, between lectures and odd jobs. Sure, I went out with a few girls, but nothing ended in wedding bells.
Ill finish uni, get a proper job and sort myself out, Id promise. Then, Ill think about settling down.
After graduating and landing an engineers postlow rung, but respectableI dreamt of buying my own second-hand car.
We werent poor anymore. But still, nowhere near enough for a car, and I wanted one badly.
So I dusted off my Father Christmas costume again.
Mum fetched it from the loft, shook off the bag, and refreshed it with heaps of glitter. The beard was whiter and fluffier than ever. I glued on some thick eyebrows, checked my reflection, and grinnedFather Christmas, through and through.
Mum let out a sigh.
Thomas, its time you had your own kids. You spend every year making other peoples children smile.
Plenty of time for that, I said, waving away her words. Wish me luck, Mum, Im off!
A week before Christmas, I placed an ad in the local paper, and fifteen bookings rolled in.
After ticking off my sixth appointment from the list, I read the next: 6 Orchard Road, Flat 19.
I hopped off the bus and headed to the house.
Orchard Road lay on the towns fringe, shadowed and quiet.
I didnt struggle finding number 6. I climbed the stairs and rang the bell.
The door swung openstanding there was a little lad, about five or six.
In the woodland clearing, I come from my snowy house I began, reciting the rhyme.
But the boy interrupted me, forehead creased.
We didnt ask for Father Christmas!
Oh, no need for invites, I improvised quickly, nerves fluttering. I come to visit good children all on my own. Is your mum or dad in?
Nope. Mums next door with Grandma Maggie, giving her an injection. Shell be back soon.
And your name is?
Thomas.
I blinked, surprised by the coincidence.
But I kept it to myself. I was Father Christmas.
Thomas, wheres your Christmas tree?
In my room, he replied, grabbing my hand and leading me.
Inside, the little flat was plainly furnished.
On the side-table by his bed stood a three-litre jar with a single pine branch, dotted with tiny ornaments and a string of colourful bulbs.
There, next to it, were two photographsone of a man, one of a woman.
I looked closer
My heart froze. The man in the photo was me.
It couldnt beI peered in disbelief, but there I was, smiling out of an old university snapshot.
Next to me was a picture of a womanEmily Cooper.
Wed met one summer labouring with a student building crew.
Her photo now was differentolder, sadder, but still with those kind, beautiful eyes I remembered.
Whos this then? I stuttered, my voice barely recognisable.
Mum, the boy replied.
Your mum?
My mum.
Her names Emily? I blurted.
Wow, you guessed it! You really are Father Christmas! I thought they werent real.
And this fellow? I pointed at my own face, senses tumbling with the truth that Thomas was my son.
My dad! Hes a real explorer! Mum says he works in a place so cold that he lives on an icebergand he left when I was just a baby, so Ive never seen him. But he always sends me presents, every birthday and Christmas. I know Father Christmas hides Dads gift under my pillow on Christmas morning.
I stood there, stunnedmemories of my own imaginary explorer dad rushed back.
Do all mothers send the fathers who leave off to the North Pole with new stories?
Now I was one of those men.
A feeling of pain, bitter and deep, bore down inside me.
I remembered Emily and our passionate, brief romance.
Wed swapped numbers when parting, but I never called backand after a few days, someone nicked my phone.
Shed slipped from my life, washed away by studies, friends, and girlfriendsuntil now.
Yet here she was, living in my town, raising our son alone, my photo kept close beside hers.
As I braced to reveal who I was to young Thomas, the door swung openEmily stepped in:
Sorry, darling, I was lateGrandma Maggie needed an ambulance and a trip to hospital.
She paused when she saw me.
Ohum, we didnt book a Father Christmas, she exclaimed, eyes wide.
Tears burst from metears of joy and wonder.
I ripped the hat and beard off, peeled away the eyebrows.
Thomas?! Emily gasped, dropping onto the ottoman in a faint.
She sobbed so loudly that little Thomas was frightened.
But at the sight of her son, Emily steadied herself.
I told him Id come straight from the North to be Father Christmas and surprise him and Mum.
Thomas couldnt contain himself. He sang, recited poems, clutching our handsafraid I might disappear again.
He didnt mention his presenthe trusted that Father Christmas would leave his Dads gift beneath his pillow.
After he drifted to sleep, Emily and I talked until dawn, as if those years apart had never happened.
The next morning, I ran out for another present, only then realising Id gone to number 6A, not 6. In the night, Id missed the tiny Awalked to the wrong door.
But truly, it was the right doorthe only door that mattered.
What a blessed, fateful mistake, I smiled to myself.
Now, there are three of us. Were as happy as can be.
And Mum and Gran?
Theyre over the moon with little Thomas Thomasontheir grandson and great-grandson!
