The Call from the Past: A Father’s Return
Edmund shut the fridge door, wiping his hands on a rag.
“There, that should do it. It’ll freeze now, but best to check,” he said to the housewife. “Have you got an empty plastic bowl? Fill it with water and pop it in the freezer. I’ll ring you tonight—if it’s frozen solid, you’re sorted.”
Just then, his phone rang again. Another customer, he assumed, picking up.
“Hello, appliance repairs speaking. What’s the issue? Yes, this is Edmund Whitmore. Sorry, what did you say? *Father?*” His grip nearly faltered.
The voice introduced itself—Victor Whitmore. It took Edmund a moment to place it: his father, unseen and unheard from for over twenty years. His heart raced as fragmented memories spun through his mind.
“And so… what do you want?” Edmund hesitated, unsure how to address the man. “Meet and talk? Right, of course. Only two decades late. Sorry, I’m on a job—I’ll call back.” He ended the call, muttering under his breath, “Well, isn’t that just perfect.”
Turning up after all this time. No doubt after something—probably money. How old was he now? Pushing sixty, likely. Edmund scoffed, refocusing on his work.
“Right, sorted,” he told the woman. “Give me a ring tonight—if the water’s frozen, your freezer’s fixed.”
She thanked him, and Edmund was off to his next job. An elderly woman needed her washing machine repaired—it was leaking. She was chatty, insisting he sit for tea and biscuits. The fix was simple: the rubber seal had slipped. Another repairman had quoted her an outrageous price, but Edmund charged barely enough to cover parts—profiting off pensioners sat wrong with him. She praised him endlessly, saying folk like him were rare these days. Edmund smiled awkwardly, sipped his tea, and promised to return if anything else broke.
But his thoughts lingered on his father’s call. Hazy memories surfaced. His parents had split when he was five. His father drank, lost his job. His mum cried but believed his promises—until the day he collected Edmund from nursery drunk. He’d slumped on a park bench, beer in hand, ranting to a baffled child about how his wife didn’t appreciate him. Then he’d passed out. Edmund, ashamed, had tried shaking him awake before giving up and wandering home alone, lost until a neighbour found him.
His mother hadn’t shouted that night. Just quietly said, “Go. You let our boy walk off on his own. What kind of father does that?”
His father left for another city. Sent money and toys now and then. His mother would laugh bitterly. “We’re just fine without him, aren’t we, Eddie?”
When Edmund turned ten, she introduced him to Uncle Robert. “Love, Robert wants to marry me. He’ll take care of us. Fancy a new bicycle?”
Robert was decent enough. He loved his mum, but he wasn’t a father to Edmund. Part of her affection now belonged to Robert, and Edmund often felt like an afterthought.
That evening, Edmund reluctantly dialled his father’s number. The man answered at once.
“Edmund, meet me tomorrow. Seven o’clock, by the old fountain on High Street. Can you make it?”
“Fine,” Edmund muttered.
His mother once said Robert wanted to adopt him, give him his name. “We’re family now.” But Edmund refused. He’d stayed Edmund Whitmore, clinging to that invisible thread to his father. His mother wanted the past erased, but Edmund had waited—for what, he wasn’t sure. Then he realised there was nothing to wait for.
The next evening, he walked to High Street, resolved: if his father asked for money, he’d give it—and that’d be the end.
At the fountain stood an older man, rising from the bench. *No sentimental rubbish,* Edmund thought. *And please don’t be drunk.*
“Evening, Edmund,” the man offered his hand.
“Evening.” Edmund shook it, noting the firm grip.
“I’ll be plain,” his father began. “I promised your mother I’d stay away until you were grown. She loathed me, and you feared me. I left town. At first, I couldn’t find work—drank myself half to death. Then, after one too many benders, I landed in hospital. The nurse who patched me up became my wife. She had a daughter, Emily—I raised her as my own. Started fixing cars, appliances, anything. Built a business. But you’re grown now. I wanted to see you. You’re my only blood. I’d like to ask…”
Edmund braced himself. Here it comes—the ask for cash. But his father looked nothing like a drunk—well-dressed, steady-eyed. Same ears as Edmund. Same habit of tucking his hands in his pockets. Could’ve been a proper father.
“Edmund, I run a repair firm with a mate,” his father continued. “Seems we’re cut from the same cloth. I’ve moved back, brought the family. Planning to open a branch here. I want you as my partner—eventually, the owner. Think it over. I know I’m a stranger. But I’d like to give you what I couldn’t before. A father’s support.”
Edmund was stunned. Not a plea for money—a lifeline. Within days, he agreed.
Bit by bit, he relearned his father. Resentment faded. Working together fitted them like puzzle pieces finally clicking into place. Now Edmund Whitmore doesn’t work solo—he and his father run a thriving repair business, with discounts for elderly customers.
And recently, he proposed to his girl, Eleanor. They’d dated two years, but he’d hesitated. Now he knew—he was ready to be a husband, a father, the head of a family.
That night, his father said, “I was a fool, lost, no idea how to live. Forgive me, son. Time doesn’t excuse it. Nor does age. A man ought to do better.”
Edmund forgave him. So long as they lived, there was still time to set things right.
