Maggie Andrews slammed the phone down so hard the Bakelite receiver rattled. Her hands trembled; her heart thumped like a washing machine off-balance. She slumped onto the stool by the cooker.
“Mum? What happened?” Poppy peeked round the doorframe. “Who called?”
“No one,” Maggie rasped. “It was no one.”
Poppy drew closer, noticing her mother’s ashen face. “You’re shaking! What’s wrong?”
“Your father surfaced,” Maggie whispered. “After all those years… Wants to talk. Says he regrets everything. Misses us.”
“Dad rang?” Poppy sat beside her, clasping her hand. “What’d he want?”
“My forgiveness. To visit. Says he’s ill, doctors…” Maggie swiped a tear away. “Too late, love. Decades too late.”
“Mum, tell me properly what happened. I was little. I only remember him leaving.”
Maggie stood and walked to the window. Rain spattered the pane like tears on a cheek.
“You were seven. Kept asking where he was. I said ‘business trip’—foolish lies. Didn’t know myself.”
“He just left? With no warning?”
“Didn’t just leave. He…” Maggie pressed her lips thin. “Betrayed us. You. Me. Our home. Had another family. Another wife. Other children. Chose them.”
Poppy swallowed the sour truth. Thirty-two now, childhood memories of her father blurred like a rainy windscreen.
“He’d say he adored us,” Maggie continued. “Read you bedtime stories, played football in the garden. Then I learned he had another daughter—three years older than you. A wife who thought *she* was the legal one. Didn’t know we existed.”
“Good grief, Mum… How’d you find out?”
“Stupid accident. He got hospitalised. I showed up—there sat Janet with her little girl. That child shrieked ‘Daddy!’ while he hugged her. I understood instantly. Stood in the doorway—he turned white. Janet squinted at me: ‘Who’s this, Dave?’ He just… stayed silent.”
“What happened then?”
“Short conversation. Janet said they’d wed eight years prior. Her name on the flat mortgage. Their daughter, Sophie, legally his. Me? Cluel ached fool! We skipped marriage—he’d called certificates ‘bureaucratic rubbish.’ Only love mattered. You had his surname—but no security. Nothing.”
Poppy hugged her. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Why burden you? Your childhood was hard enough. One income, scrimping pennies, dragging you to GPs when you fell ill. Planned to explain once you’d settled, married George. Why scratch old wounds?”
“Did he ever reach out?”
“Tried. At first he’d skulk outside, beg to talk. I kept the door bolted. Sent cheques. Sent them straight back. Stubborn idiot. Thought I could raise you alone—didn’t need that sort of man.”
“Now he’s back.”
“Oh yes. Phoning daily for a week. Says Janet passed. Their daughter married. He’s alone. Wants to meet you. See grandkids. Very ill—not long left.”
Poppy stepped back, thoughtful. “Maybe hear him out? Mum, I barely recall him. Might he truly regret it?”
“Poppy!” Maggie spun round. “Twenty-five bloody years! Forgot us for decades! Now he’s poorly—he remembers?”
“But he called repeatedly. Must matter somehow.”
“Matter?” Maggie’s laugh was bitter. “Wants absolution before the final curtain-up. For his comfort. What’s it for us? Return my youth? Dry your seven-year-old tears asking why Daddy vanished?”
Poppy slumped at the table, head in hands. “Mum, I forgave him years ago. Teenage me realised anger wasted energy. Had to move on.”
“Easy for you—you’re young. Young wounds scab over. I remember every skipped meal, every extra shift at that biscuit factory. Remember your classmates teasing you about no dad. Remember your graduation—no one beside me to cheer. Your wedding—no father to walk you down the aisle.”
“Mum, we managed! I’ve George—two healthy kids. We built that extension. Maybe life was better without him?”
“Maybe. Doesn’t mean I pardon him. Let his conscience bite. Let him see some messes stay unfixed.”
The phone shrilled. Maggie froze, staring at Poppy.
“Don’t answer,” Poppy urged.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
It silenced. One minute later—ringing again.
“Could be someone else?” Poppy said faintly.
“Him. Knew his voice anywhere. Older. Raspier. Still him.”
“Mum… what if he *is* dying?”
“We’ll all die, love. Some peaceful. Others… not.”
The ringing stopped. Silence pooled between them.
“Actually, Mum—I’ll meet him,” Poppy declared. “Need to see his face.
Olivia wiped away a tear while unpacking ginger biscuits for tea, realizing that their tangled family history had finally settled like dust in an old book—meant to be acknowledged, perhaps, but no longer worth stirring up.
