Margaret Harper thumped the receiver onto its cradle with enough force to rattle the old phone. “Don’t you dare call me! Understood? Never call again!” She collapsed onto the stool by the kitchen counter, hands trembling, heart pounding like a trapped bird.
“Mum? What happened?” Emma, her daughter, peeked out from her room. “Who was it?”
“No one,” Margaret rasped, her voice thick. “Just a wrong number.”
Emma moved closer, taking in her mother’s pale face. “Mum, you’re shaking like a leaf! What’s wrong?”
“Your father phoned,” Margaret whispered. “After all these years… Wants to meet, to talk. Says he misses us, regrets everything.”
“Dad rang?” Emma perched beside her, taking her mother’s hand. “What did he want?”
“Forgiveness. Wants me to let him visit. Says he’s poorly, that the doctors…” Margaret trailed off, swiping away a tear. “Too late, Sweetpea. Far too late for all that.”
“Mum, tell me what really happened then. I was only little. I remember him leaving, not coming back.”
Margaret stood, drifting to the window. Outside, a fine, miserable drizzle streaked the glass like tears. “You were seven. Kept asking where Daddy was, and I hadn’t a clue what to say. Told you he was working away, be home soon. Didn’t know where he was myself.”
“He just… vanished? Without a word?”
“Didn’t just vanish.” Margaret pressed her lips tight. “He betrayed us. Me, you, our home. Had another family, Sweetpea. Another wife, other children. He chose them.”
Emma fell silent, digesting this. Thirty-two now, childhood memories of her father were hazy, like looking through fog. “He said he loved us,” Margaret continued, “Came home every day, played with you, read stories. Then I found out… he had another daughter, three years older. A wife who thought *she* was the legal one. Didn’t even know we existed.”
“Good grief, Mum… How did you find out?”
“Silly way. He got sick, landed in hospital. I went to visit, and there’s this woman with a little girl. The girl shouts, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ and he hugs her, kisses her. Saw me in the doorway, went white as a sheet. That woman, Lydia, looks at me, then him. ‘Who is that, Robert?’ she asks. And he? Just… dead silence.”
“What happened then?”
“Short chat. She tells me they’ve been married eight years, flat in her name, daughter registered with his surname. Me? I was just the daft, love-struck fool. No wedding ring for us. He always insisted marriage certificates were nonsense, that love mattered. Registered you with his name, yes, but I had no legal proof.”
Emma stood, wrapping her arms around her mother. “Mum, why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Why burden you? Childhood was hard enough. I worked myself raw, always short of pennies, dragged you round doctors when you were ill. Thought I’d tell you when you were grown. Years passed, you built your own life, got married. Why stir up old wounds?”
“He never tried to contact us?”
“Oh, he tried. Hovered under the windows at first, begged to talk. I wouldn’t open the door. Sent letters, money. Returned ’em all. Proud idiot, I was. Thought I could raise a daughter alone, didn’t need a man like that.”
“And now he’s back.”
“Now, yes. Phoning for a week. Says Lydia died, his daughter’s grown, married, that he’s alone. Wants to see you, meet his grandchildren. Says he’s terribly ill, not much time left.”
Emma moved away, thoughtful. “Maybe you should hear him out? Mum, I barely recall him. Maybe he truly regrets it?”
“Emma!” Margaret spun around sharply. “What are you saying? Twenty-five years! He forgot us for twenty-five years! Now life’s tough for him, he remembers?”
“He’s phoned more than once. Must mean something.”
“Something!” Margaret gave a bitter laugh. “Wants to clear his conscience before he pops his clogs. Make it easier for him. What good is that to us? Will it give me back my youth? Erase your little tears when you asked why Daddy didn’t come home?”
Emma sat at the table, resting her head in her hands. “Mum, I forgave him years ago. Worked it out as a teen. Being angry was pointless. Had to get on.”
“You can forgive, you’re young. I can’t. I remember every single day, every sleepless night. Remember working two jobs to clothe you, feed you. Recall your tears when schoolkids teased you about having no dad. Your school prom, no one to walk you down the aisle at your wedding…”
“Mum, but we managed! Look at me – a good family, healthy kids. I have work, we built our home. Maybe life *was* better without him?”
“Maybe it was. Doesn’t mean I have to forgive. Let him stew in his guilt. Let him know not everything in life can be mended.”
The phone shrilled again. Margaret froze, looked at her daughter. “Don’t answer, Mum.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
The ringing stopped. A minute later, it started again.
“Maybe it’s not him?” Emma ventured weakly.
“Him. Recognise the voice. Older, but him.”
“Mum, what if he really is dying?”
“Everyone dies, Sweetpea. Some go with a clear conscience, others… carry their muck.”
The calls ceased. Mother and daughter sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts.
“You know, Mum? I’m going to see him,” Emma said suddenly. “Want to look him in the eye, talk. Maybe he’ll have something interesting to say. About my childhood, when we were together.”
“You’re barmy!” Margaret jumped up. “Why would you? He’s a stranger!”
“Not a stranger, Mum. My father. A rotten one, maybe, but still my father. I have a right to meet him.”
“You have. But don’t expect me to grasp it. I don’t grasp it, and I shan’t try.”
“Mum, not asking you to meet him. I’ll do it myself. Find out what he wants, what’s happening. Maybe he has changed.”
“People don’t change at sixty, Sweetpea. Just get older and wilier.”
“Right, Mum. Let’s drop it for now. You’re upset, and I need to fetch the kids. School ends soon.”
Emma kissed her mother’s cheek and grabbed her bag.
“Just don’t be daft,” Margaret pleaded. “Think properly.”
“I will, Mum. I promise.”
When Emma left, Margaret sank into her armchair, picking up an old photo. A lovely young woman holding a toddler, a man with kind eyes beside her. A family. That wasn’t.
She stared at the photo a long time, then rose, moved to the hob, and clicked a burner on. Blue flame leapt up. Margaret held the picture close… then snatched her hand back.
“No,” she whispered. “Won’t burn it. Let it stay. A reminder of what a gullible twit I was.”
The phone rang again. Margaret lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Margaret? It’s me. Please don’t hang up
Gazing at the untouched old photograph gathering dust on the shelf, the ache in Evelyn’s chest remained a familiar, stubborn companion to the silence filling the empty kitchen.
