**A Call from the Past: The Return of a Father**
I tightened the last screw on the fridge door and wiped my hands on a rag.
“Right, that should do it,” I told the homeowner. “It’ll freeze now, but best to check. Have you got an empty plastic bowl? Fill it with water and pop it in the freezer. I’ll ring you this evening—if it’s frozen, you’re sorted.”
Just then, my phone rang again. Another customer, I thought, picking up.
“Hello, appliance repairs. What needs fixing? Yeah, this is Jeremy Wilson. Wait—what did you say? My father?” My grip on the phone nearly slipped.
The voice introduced himself as Victor Wilson. It took a moment to sink in: this was my dad, a man I hadn’t seen or heard from in over twenty years. My heart hammered as fragments of memory flickered through my mind.
“What do you… want?” I faltered, unsure what to even call him. “Meet up and talk? Right, like twenty years is nothing. Look, I’m on a job—I’ll call you back.” I ended the call, muttering under my breath, “Well, that’s rich.”
Turning up after all this time. Bet he wants something. Money, probably. I scoffed, refocusing on the fridge.
“Sorted then,” I told the homeowner. “Check the bowl tonight. If it’s frozen, your freezer’s working fine.”
She thanked me, and I headed to my next job—an elderly woman with a leaking washing machine. She was friendly, insisting I sit for tea and biscuits. The fix was simple: just a worn-out door seal. Another bloke had quoted her a fortune, but I charged barely anything. Swindling pensioners wasn’t my style. She kept saying how rare it was to meet decent folk these days, and I just smiled awkwardly, sipping my tea.
But my mind kept circling back to that call. Flashes of memory surfaced. My parents split when I was five. Dad drank, lost his job. Mum cried but kept believing his promises. One afternoon, he picked me up from nursery, sat us on a park bench, and cracked open a beer, slurring complaints about how Mum didn’t respect him. He passed out drunk, leaving me there, ashamed, until a neighbor found me wandering alone.
Mum never shouted at him. Just said quietly, *”Leave. You let our son walk off alone. What kind of father does that?”*
He moved away, sending occasional money or toys. Mum would scoff, *”We’re better off without him, eh, Jeremy?”*
When I was ten, she introduced me to Uncle Richard. *”He wants to marry me. He’ll take care of us. Fancy a new bike?”* Richard was alright, I suppose—kind to Mum, but never a father to me. Part of her love was his now, and I felt like an outsider.
That evening, I finally called Dad back. He answered immediately.
“Meet me tomorrow, seven o’clock, by the fountain on Greenway Boulevard,” he said.
“Fine,” I grunted.
Mum once mentioned Richard wanted to adopt me, give me his name. But I refused. Staying Jeremy Wilson felt important, like a thread still tied to Dad, however frayed. Mum wanted to erase the past, but I’d clung to it—waiting for what, I didn’t know. Then I realised there was nothing to wait for.
The next evening, I walked to the boulevard, steeling myself: if he asked for money, I’d help—but that’d be it. No sentimental rubbish.
Dad was waiting by the fountain—older, but steady. No drunk’s shuffle. Just a firm handshake and tired eyes that looked like mine.
“I kept my distance because I owed your mum that much,” he said. “I drank myself into a gutter, then a hospital. The nurse who patched me up became my wife. She had a daughter, Lily—I raised her as my own. Fixed up my life, started a repair business. But you’re my blood, Jeremy. I’m not here to ask for anything. I’m offering you a partnership—my firm’s expanding. Thought you might want in.”
I was stunned. Not a plea for money—but a leg up. Within days, I agreed.
Working together, the old resentment faded. We fitted like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Now, Jeremy Wilson doesn’t work solo. We run a thriving appliance repair business—always discounts for pensioners.
And last month, I proposed to my girlfriend, Emma. Two years together, but I’d hesitated. Now I knew: I was ready to be a husband. A father.
One night, Dad said, *”I was a fool back then. Age doesn’t excuse it. Being a man means owning up.”*
I forgave him. Turns out, it’s never too late to make things right.
