I always thought stories like these were just the kind that gather dust at the far end of the internet. Yet, somehow, I found myself in one just the same.
I was six when my dad vanished poof, just like a magician leaving his hat behind. Suddenly, it was just me, Mum, and my two younger twin sisters. Mum tried to cover for him, insisting he was off on some terribly important business trip. But, even as a child, I could sense a whiff of fib in the air. When she finally realised the game was up, she sighed and said, Your fathers not part of our world anymore!
My little child-brain couldnt quite wrap itself around all this grown-up turmoil. I was cross with Dad and spent far too much time imagining his heroic return. He remained stubbornly absent. Mum soldiered on, never looking for love. Life wasnt exactly a walk in Hyde Park for her, but honestly, it seemed her options were about as appealing as a cold soggy chip. Whod want a divorced lady with three kids in tow? Time marched on, as it always does. Now Im married myself, with children, still living in the countryside. We have our own tiny farm and an orchard full of apple trees. It’s hardly sprawling, but its something, and slowly, its turning a profit.
A few months back, I got a phone call from a bloke Id never heard of. He insisted we talk immediately and said he might want apples in bulk. Naturally, I agreed apples must be sold, after all. He met me in my orchard: round as a barrel, bald as a coot. He smiled, handed over a package, and I opened it to find some cheap supermarket chocolates and a tub of instant coffee. Colour me baffled. Then came the punchline:
Im your dad, he announced.
I had no idea how to respond. I blurted out, Er… have you ever spent time in prison? No. Are you here to buy apples? No. So… goodbye. Goodbye…
He left his tatty carrier bag on the bench. I chased him down and handed back the bargain buys. I couldnt help but wonder what fantasy hed cooked up. I warned my sisters Dad might be on the prowl. As expected, he turned up at their place with the same bag in hand. How on earth do you show up, after twenty-four years, clutching a tub of instant coffee? Someone explain that to me!
