“Never call me again! Do you bloody hear me? Not ever!” Helen Taylor slammed the handset down onto the cradle of that rickety old phone with force. Her hands trembled, her heart pounded like a drum, forcing her to slump onto the stool by the kitchen table.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Sophie, her daughter, peered out from her room. “Who was it?”
“No one,” her mother rasped back. “No one at all.”
Sophie stepped closer, seeing her mother’s pale face. “Mummy, you’re shaking all over! What happened?”
“It’s your father,” Helen whispered. “After all these years… Wants to meet, to talk. Says he misses us, regrets everything.”
“Dad called?” Sophie perched beside her, taking her hand. “What did he want?”
“For me to forgive him. To let him come over. Says he’s ill, that the doctors…” Helen trailed off, dabbing at a tear. “It’s too late, Sophie. Far too late for any of that.”
“Mum, please, tell me what really happened back then. I was little, I only remember he left and never came back.”
Helen stood and walked to the window. Outside, a drizzle fell, raindrops sliding slowly down like tears.
“You were seven. You kept asking where Daddy was, and I didn’t know what to say. Told you he was away on business, would be back soon. But even I didn’t know where he was.”
“He just left? Without a word?”
“Didn’t just leave,” Helen pressed her lips tight. “He betrayed us. Me, you, our home. He had another family, Sophie. Another wife, other children. And he chose them.”
Sophie was silent, digesting the news. She was thirty-two now, but childhood memories of her father were vague, smudged as if by fog.
“He always said he loved us,” her mother went on. “Came home every day, played with you, read you stories. Then I found out he had another daughter, three years older than you. And a wife who thought *she* was the lawful Mrs. Taylor. Who hadn’t a clue we existed.”
“Goodness, Mum… How did you find out?”
“It was daft, really. He got sick, was in that London hospital. I went to visit him, and there was this woman with a girl. And the girl yelled, ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ while he hugged and kissed her. I knew right then. Stood there in the doorway. He saw me, went white as a sheet. That woman, Mildred, looked at me, then at him, asked, ‘Who is this, Will?’ And he said nothing. Just nothing.”
“What happened then?”
“It was a short chat. She said they’d been married eight years, the flat was in her name, the daughter had his surname. And me? I was just a daft girl in love. We never married, he always insisted registry stamps were just a piece of paper, that love was what mattered. He gave you his surname alright, but I had no papers to prove anything.”
Sophie stood and embraced her mother. “Mummy, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“What good would it have done? Your childhood was hard enough as it was. I worked myself silly, never had quite enough dosh, dragged you round doctors when you were poorly. I thought, when you’re grown, I’ll tell you then. Then time passed, you built your own life, got married. Why rake up old hurts?”
“And he never tried to reach out?”
“He did. First, he came round, stood under the windows, pleaded to talk. I wouldn’t open the door. Then letters came, money. I never read the letters, sent the money straight back. Proud, silly fool. Thought I could raise my girl alone, didn’t need a man like that.”
“And now he’s back.”
“Now, yes. Been phoning for a week. Says Mildred passed away, his daughter’s grown up, married, he’s all alone. Wants to see you, meet the grandchildren. Says he’s seriously ill, not much time left.”
Sophie stepped back, thoughtful.
“Maybe we should hear him out? Mum, I barely remember him. Maybe he really is sorry?”
“Sophie!” Helen spun around sharply. “What are you saying? Twenty-five years! Twenty-five years he forgot us! Now, when he’s poorly, he remembers?”
“But he’s calling more than once. It must matter to him.”
“Matter!” Helen laughed bitterly. “What matters is clearing his conscience before he snuffs it. Making his exit easier. What good does that do us? What do I get from his regret? Will it give me my youth back? Or dry your childhood tears when you asked why Dad never came?”
Sophie sat at the table, resting her head in her hands.
“Mum, I forgave him ages ago. Even as a teenager, I knew being angry was pointless. You have to get on.”
“You might, you’re young. I can’t. I remember every single day, every sleepless night. Remember working two jobs to clothe you, feed you. Remember you crying when kids at school teased you for having no dad. Remember having no one to come to your graduation, no one to walk you down the aisle.”
“Mum, but we managed! Look, I’ve a lovely family, kids growin’ fit. I work, we’ve got our own place. Maybe it really was better without him?”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I have to forgive him. Let his conscience gnaw at him. Let him know not everything in life can be fixed.”
The phone shrilled again. Helen froze, looked at her daughter.
“Don’t answer it, Mum.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
The ringing stopped, only to start again a moment later.
“Maybe it’s not him?” Sophie asked hesitantly.
“It is. I’d know his voice anywhere. Older, but I know it.”
“Mum, what if he really is dying?”
“We all go sometime, Sophie. Just some go with a clear conscience, others… not.”
The calls stopped. Mother and daughter sat in silence, each lost in thought.
“You know, Mum, Mum, I think I will see him,” Sophie said suddenly. “I want to look him in the eye, talk. Maybe he’ll have something worth hearing. Stories of my childhood, when we were together.”
“You’re off your rocker!” Helen leapt up. “What for? He’s a stranger!”
“Not a stranger, Mum. He’s my father. Maybe rubbish, but still my father. I’ve a right to see him.”
“You have. Just don’t ask me to understand. I don’t and won’t.”
“Mum, I’m not asking you to see him. I’ll go. Find out what he wants, what’s wrong. Maybe he’s genuinely changed.”
“People don’t change at sixty, Sophie. They just get older and craftier.”
“Alright, Mum. Let’s leave it for now. You’re upset
The years marched on, and though Nicola gently nudged her towards peace, Gladys held her worn pride close, watching the raindrops chase each other down the kitchen windowpane long after forgiveness had become just another ghost haunting her silent street.
