Monday, 15th July
He slammed the phone down so hard the old receiver rattled. “Don’t you dare call me! Understand? Never again!” My hands trembled, heart pounding like a drum as I sank onto the stool by the kitchen table.
“Mum? What happened?” Emma, my daughter, peeked out from her room. “Who was that?”
“No one,” I rasped, throat tight. “Wrong number.”
She came closer, seeing my pale face. “Mum, you’re shaking! What’s wrong?”
“Your father rang.” The words barely escaped my lips. “After all these years… Wants to meet. Talk. Says he misses us. Regrets everything.”
“Dad called?” Emma sat beside me, taking my hand. Her touch felt alien. “What did he want?”
“Forgiveness. To visit. Said he’s ill, doctors…” I choked back the rest, brushing away a tear. “It’s too late, duck. Far too late.”
“Mum, tell me what really happened back then,” she urged softly. “I was little. I only remember he left and never came back.”
I stood, moving to the window. Rain speckled the pane, drops trailing like tears. “You were seven. Always asking where Daddy was. I said he was away on business, coming back soon. But I didn’t know where he was myself.”
“He just left? Without explaining?”
“Not simply left.” I pressed my lips together. “He betrayed us, Emma. Me, you, our home. He had another family. Another wife. Other children. He chose them.”
Emma went quiet, absorbing it. Thirty-two years old now, but her childhood memories of him were foggy, distant shapes. “He said he loved us,” I continued, the hurt sharp as ever. “Came home every day, played with you, read stories. Then… I found out. Another daughter. Three years older than you. A wife who thought *she* was the lawful one. Who didn’t know we existed.”
“Goodness, Mum… How?”
“Stupidly. He was ill, in hospital. I went to visit. There she sat, a woman with a girl. The girl shouted ‘Daddy!’ and he hugged her, kissed her.” The memory etched itself fresh. “I stood in the doorway. He saw me… went white. That woman, Lydia, looked at me, then at him: ‘Who’s that, David?’ He said nothing. Just… nothing.”
“Then what?”
“Short conversation. She said they’d been married eight years. Their flat was in her name. Their daughter carried his surname. Me? I was the daft one in love. No marriage for us. He always said stamps meant nothing, only love mattered. Oh, he put his name on your birth certificate. But I had no paperwork. Nothing.” Bitterness tasted like ashes.
Emma stood, wrapping her arms around me. “Mum, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Why burden you? Your childhood was hard enough. I worked two jobs, scrimped every penny, dragged you to doctors when you were poorly. Thought I’d tell you when you grew up. Then time passed, you built your life, got married. Why rake up old hurts?”
“He never tried to reach out?”
“He did. Stood outside the windows at first, begging to talk. I never opened the door. Then letters. Money. Sent it back. Proud fool. Thought I could raise my girl alone. Didn’t need that kind of man.”
“And now he’s reappeared.”
“Now, yes. Phoning all week. Says Lydia died. His other daughter’s grown, married. Says he’s alone. Wants to see you, meet his grandkids. Says he’s terribly ill, hasn’t long.” The air felt thick.
Emma pulled away, thoughtful. “Maybe we *should* hear him out? Mum, I don’t remember him. Maybe he truly regrets?”
“Emma!” I spun round. “Are you mad? Twenty-five years! Twenty-five years he forgot us! Now life’s grim, he remembers?”
“But he keeps calling. It must matter to him.”
“Matter!” I laughed, sharp and bitter. “He wants his conscience clear before the grave. Make dying easier. What does it bring *us*? Return my youth? Wipe away those tears you cried each night asking where your daddy was?”
She slumped at the table, head in her hands. “Mum, I forgave him years ago. Realised as a teen that anger was useless. Life goes on.”
“You can forgive because you’re young. I can’t. I remember each day, every sleepless night. Remember grafting two jobs just to feed you, clothe you. Remember you weeping when school kids called you names… remember no father at your graduation, no one to walk you down the aisle.” My voice cracked.
“Mum, we managed! Look at me – my family’s good, the kids are healthy. We have jobs, built our home. Perhaps it *was* better without him?”
“Perhaps. That doesn’t mean I *must* forgive him. Let his conscience gnaw. Let him know some things can’t be fixed.”
The phone shrilled again. I froze, eyes meeting Emma’s.
“Don’t answer it, Mum.”
“Hadn’t planned to.”
The ringing stopped. Started again a minute later.
“Maybe it’s not him?” Emma ventured.
“It’s him. Knew his voice. Older now, but still him.”
“Mum… what if he really *is* dying?”
“Dying comes to us all, Emma. Some go with a clean conscience. Others don’t.”
Silence finally settled. We sat in it, miles apart across the kitchen table.
“You know what, Mum? I *will* see him,” Emma declared suddenly. “I want to look at him. Talk. Maybe hear something… About my childhood, about when we were all here.”
“Have you lost your mind?” I shot to my feet. “Why? He’s a stranger!”
“Not a stranger. He’s my father. A bad one, maybe. But my father. I have a right to see him.”
“You do. Don’t ask me to understand. I don’t. I won’t.”
“Not asking you to meet him, Mum. I’ll do it myself. Hear what he wants, what’s wrong. Maybe he *has* changed.”
“Men don’t change at sixty, love. They just get older and craftier.”
“Alright. Let’s not quarrel now. You’re upset. I need to fetch the kids from school.”
She kissed my cheek, grabbed her bag.
“Just… don’t do anything daft,” I implored. “Think carefully.”
“I will. I promise.”
As the door closed, I sank into my armchair, picking up an old photo. A young woman with kind eyes held a toddler. A man beside her, smiling warmly. A family. Gone.
I stared until the image blurred. Then stood, moved to the stove, clicked a burner on. Blue flame leapt. I held the photo near the fire… then snatched it back. “No,” I whispered. “Won’t burn it. Let it stay. Remind me what a fool I was.”
The phone screamed again. Unthinking,
Margaret slammed the phone down with such force the old receiver rattled. “Don’t you dare ring me again! Never!” My hands trembled as I sank onto the kitchen stool, heart pounding like a drum.
Emily peered from her room, worry etching her face. “Mum? Who was that?”
“Nobody,” I rasped, but she saw my pallor, the shaking.
“You’re white as a sheet! What’s happened?”
“Your father’s turned up,” I whispered. “After all these years… Wants to talk. Says he regrets everything.”
Emily knelt beside me, taking my icy hand. “Dad rang? What does he want?”
“Forgiveness. To visit. Claims he’s ill, that doctors…” I wiped a traitorous tear. “It’s too late, love. Decades too late.”
“Tell me properly, Mum,” she pressed. “I was only seven when he vanished.”
I stared through the window pane where raindrops streaked like tears. “He betrayed us, Emily. Had another family—another wife, children—hid it for years. Chose them when caught.” Her silence hung heavy as she processed this bomb in her thirties, childhood memories fogged by time.
“He claimed to love us,” I continued bitterly. “Played with you, read bedtime stories… till I walked into his hospital room and saw a woman and girl calling him ‘Daddy.’ That Lydia woman asked ‘Who’s she, Robert?’ And he just… froze.”
“And then?”
“We had words. She flaunted their marriage certificate, the flat in her name, their daughter legally his. Me? A fool who believed ‘wedding stamps don’t matter.'” I swallowed the old shame. “Your surname was all I had.”
Emily hugged me. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Why burden you? I worked two jobs, scraped pennies for doctors when you fell ill… Your wedding day came, no father to walk you.”
“But did he
She rested her head against the glass, watching rain distort the lamplights into golden smears below, forever waiting for wounds time couldn’t mend.
