My world quietly revolves around my father, who raised me, watched over me, and became my steadfast anchor. When I arrived, my mother left without a backward glance, and my father never remarriedperhaps wary of tempting sorrow again. Life’s weather seldom favoured him, and I always wished to grow older faster, so I could shoulder his burdens in the manner of those responsible souls I imagined wandering through misty English villages.
Our family’s purse was rarely flush, so at fifteen, I started to earn my own pounds and shillings. I spun words for the local papers, trading ink and stories for a modest sum. Three years later, fortune nudged me towards a better postand soon, after another stretch of strange, winding days, I found myself in a proper office, entirely self-sufficient, able even to look after my father and myself as dusk settled outside in the drizzle.
One afternoon, my father summoned me for a solemn talk, or so he said, and the hall began to echo with sleepless unease. In the lounge, a woman waitedmy father sat beside her, hands folded, glancing at the ticking clock. He whispered she was my mother.
Upon glimpsing me, she broke into tears as if a storm had swept through her. She apologised and tried to draw me close, but I hesitated. Her arms barely touched me before I gently slipped away, leaving the old pair beneath the flickering lamps. Without a word, I exited into the foggy evening, deciding to let my father untangle the knot in his own way, as he always liked.
I cannot bring myself to forgive someone who drifted away so carelessly, who left my father and me alone all those yearsnever bothering even to send greetings when all the seasons changed. Such absences render years strangely hollow, the memory of abandonment lingering with the scent of rain-soaked grass after midnight.
