I hadn’t spoken to my father in twelve years. Then, out of the blue, he sent a postcard with a single word on it.
Twelve years ago, Oliver was twenty-two. Fresh out of law school.
One word changed everything. *”Sorry.”* A magic word, like a key to a rusted lock. Forgiveness offers a second chance. Love gives you the strength to take it.
The paint under his nails wouldn’t wash off. He scrubbed with soap like he was trying to erase the past. Futile.
The water was cold. Bitingly cold, like that day twelve years ago.
The postman had delivered the postcard that morning. It sat on the table like a ticking bomb. Oliver was afraid to touch it.
His father’s handwriting. Familiar. Precise, as if drafting a legal verdict.
On the back, just one word: *”Sorry.”*
Nothing else.
Twelve years ago. Oliver, twenty-two. Degree freshly framed.
His father sat in his study, flipping through documents. He looked up when Oliver entered.
“Your meeting with Charles Whitmore is tomorrow,” he said. “Nine sharp.”
Charles Whitmore. His father’s law partner. A heavyweight in the field.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
His father set the papers down. Studied him. Frowned—like he already knew what was coming.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m not going to see Charles Whitmore.”
Silence. Long and heavy, ringing in Oliver’s ears.
“I don’t understand,” his father said slowly.
“I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
The words hung in the air, solid as bricks.
His father stood. Walked to the window. Turned his back.
“Then what *do* you want to be?”
“An artist.”
His father spun around. First, disbelief. Then anger.
“An *artist*?” he repeated. “You’re joking.”
“No. I’m serious.”
Oliver remembered every word of that conversation. Every inflection.
“Five years at university,” his father muttered. “Five bloody years!”
“I did it for you,” Oliver said. “Not for me.”
“For the family! For your future!”
His father paced, hands clasped behind his back, face flushed like he’d run a marathon.
“Artists starve,” he grumbled. “Die penniless.”
“Not all of them.”
“Most. And you’re no exception.”
Oliver pulled a portfolio from his bag. Sketches. Paintings. His work.
“Look,” he said.
His father took it. Flipped through slowly. His face betrayed nothing.
Oliver waited. Hoped. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d *feel* something.
“A hobby,” his father finally said. “A nice hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby. It’s my life.”
His father closed the folder. Set it down like rubbish.
“Your life is the law,” he said firmly. “The rest is nonsense.”
Oliver stared at the postcard now. Turned it in his hands. Thick, quality cardstock.
On the front—a print of Van Gogh’s *Starry Night*.
Irony? Or acknowledgment? Had his father chosen it deliberately, a silent nod to the truth Oliver had fought for? Or just a coincidence?
He placed the postcard on the shelf. Beside it, a photo—him and his father fishing.
He was ten. His father, younger, happier. Not yet hardened by disappointment.
When had it all broken? When had his father become so rigid?
After Mum died. Yes, that was it. Oliver was fourteen.
His father shut down. Buried himself in work. Became demanding, as if control could fix the unfixable.
“Mum would’ve understood,” Oliver had said then. “She loved art.”
A mistake. A terrible mistake.
His father paled. Clenched his fists.
“Don’t!” he shouted. “Don’t you *dare* bring her into this!”
“But it’s true!”
“The truth is you’re selfish! Thinking only of yourself!”
That argument lasted two hours. Shouting. Accusations. Words like knives.
“You’re a disappointment,” his father said. “A complete disappointment.”
“And you’re a tyrant,” Oliver shot back. “Not a father—a tyrant.”
His father wrenched the door open.
“Get out,” he said quietly. “And don’t come back.”
“Dad—”
“Get out! Now!”
Oliver packed his things. His hands shook. His chest felt hollow, like his heart had been torn out.
His father stood in the hallway. Staring at the wall. Didn’t even look at him.
“Dad…” Oliver tried one last time.
Silence. Not a word. Just a statue where his father used to be.
Oliver left. The door slammed behind him. For good.
They hadn’t spoken since. Twelve years.
Oliver picked up his phone. Typed his father’s number. Hesitated. What do you say after twelve years? *”Hi”?*
He set the phone down. Walked to the easel. Pulled off the cloth.
The painting was nearly finished. His father’s portrait. Painted from memory over a year.
A stern face, but the eyes—sad. Lonely, like a lost boy.
That’s how Oliver remembered him. Not cruel. Not heartless. Just lost.
He picked up a brush. Added shadow around the eyes. The lines of time.
What did he look like now? Grey, probably. Maybe a little stooped.
Sixty-eight. An age for looking back. For regrets.
That evening, Oliver visited his wife, Eleanor. She sat in her chair, painting her nails with surgeon-like precision.
“A postcard came,” he said.
“From who?” she asked, not looking up.
“My dad.”
She froze. The brush hovered mid-air.
“What did it say?”
*”Sorry.”*
She looked up. Warm sadness in her eyes.
“What now?”
“I don’t know…”
Eleanor set the nail polish aside. Hugged him. Wordless. A shield against the hurt.
“He’s getting old,” she whispered. “Starting to see what he’s done.”
“Too late.”
“Never too late. Not if there’s love.”
Oliver rested his head on her shoulder. Familiar. Safe.
“And if it’s gone?”
“It’s not. Or he wouldn’t have written.”
That night, he didn’t sleep. Lay awake, thinking. His father wasn’t a villain. Just a man ruled by fear. Lost his wife, terrified of losing his son. Tried to control Oliver to mask his own helplessness. Futile, but human.
Oliver hadn’t been blameless either. Stubborn. Unyielding. Hadn’t tried to understand.
Twelve years wasted. Like pearls scattered in the dark.
At dawn, he dressed. Took the portrait.
“Where are you going?” Eleanor asked sleepily.
“To see my dad.”
She nodded. As if she’d expected it.
“Good luck,” she murmured, kissing his cheek.
The house hadn’t changed. Same fence, same windows. But it seemed smaller, hunched with loneliness.
Oliver stood at the gate. Heart pounding like a schoolboy’s before an exam. Palms sweaty.
He pressed the bell. The chime was familiar—from childhood.
Footsteps in the hall. Slow. Careful.
The door opened. His father. Older. Greyer. But the same eyes.
He stared at Oliver like a ghost. Disbelieving.
“Oliver?” he whispered.
“Hi, Dad.”
They stood in silence. Just looking. Time frozen.
“Come in,” his father finally said. His voice trembled.
Oliver stepped inside. The house still smelled faintly of his mother’s perfume. Nothing had changed.
His childhood drawings still hung in the living room. Clumsy, but cherished.
“You kept these?” Oliver asked, surprised.
“Of course,” his father said. “They’re yours.”
They sat at the table. His father made tea. Hands shaking slightly as he poured.
“Sorry,” he murmured, not meeting Oliver’s eyes.
“Me too.”
His father looked up. Eyes wet.
“I was a fool,” he admitted. “A stubborn old fool.”
“We both were.”
Oliver brought out the painting. Showed it to him.
“That’s you.”
His father stared. Silent. Ran a finger along the edge.
“Like me?” Oliver asked.
“Too much,” his father said softly.
He stood, went to the cupboard. Pulled out a folder. The same one.
“I kept it,” he said. “All these years.”
Inside—Oliver’s old sketches. Preserved like treasure.
“I realized recently,” his father added. “You were right. Your mother would’ve supported you.”
The ice in Oliver’s chest melted. Twelve years of it.
“Forgive me, son,” his father repeated.
“I already have, Dad.”
