Where did you get that picture? Ians face goes pale as he spots a photograph of his missing father on the wall.
When Ian gets home from his job at the engineering firm, his mother is on the balcony watering the roses. She leans over the hanging pots, gently smoothing the leaves, her face lit by a calm, warm glow.
Mum, youre like a busy bee, Ian says, taking off his jacket, stepping forward and looping his arms around her shoulders. Another marathon day on your feet?
Oh, its nothing, she laughs softly, her smile bright. My spirit gets a rest. Look at the garden, love. The scent feels as if the whole world is a botanical park.
She chuckles, a quiet, kind sound she always makes. Ian breathes in the fragrant air and suddenly remembers the cramped council flat they once lived in, where the only garden was a pot of kalanchoe that constantly shed its leaves.
Years slip by. Now his mother spends most of her time at the little cottage Ian bought her for her birthday. Its a modest stone house, but the garden stretches out as far as the eye can see. In spring she plants seedlings, in summer she tends the greenhouse, in autumn she harvests root vegetables, and in winter she waits for the first thaw.
Ian knows that, no matter how brightly she smiles, a quiet, bright sorrow lives in her eyes. It will not fade until her deepest wish is fulfilled to see the man she has waited for all her life.
Her husband. He left for work on an ordinary morning and never returned. Ian was only five then. His mother tells him that day he kissed her on the temple, winked at his son and said, Be a good lad, then walked away, never knowing it was forever.
Soon the police were called, statements were taken, searches launched. Neighbours whispered, Maybe he left, Maybe hes with someone else, Something happened. But his mother repeats the one line:
He wouldnt just walk away. If hes gone, he cant come back.
That thought haunts Ian for more than thirty years. He is convinced his father couldnt have abandoned them. He simply couldnt.
After school Ian enrolls at a technical college, though deep down he dreams of being a journalist. He knows he must get on his feet quickly. His mother works nights as a nurse at the local hospital, never complaining. Even when her feet swell and her eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep, she says:
Its all right, Ian. The important thing is you keep learning.
He studies hard. At night he scours missingpersons databases, combs through archives, and writes on forums. Hope never wanes; instead it becomes the core of his being. He grows strong, knowing he must be a pillar for his mother.
When he lands his first solid job, he first clears his mothers debts, then opens a savings account, and eventually buys the same cottage he once gifted her. He tells her:
All right, Mum, now you can finally rest.
She weeps openly, without shame. Ian wraps his arms around her and whispers:
Youve earned this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.
Ian dreams of a family, of a house that smells of roast beef and fresh scones, where relatives gather on Sundays and childrens laughter fills the rooms. For now he works long hours, saving for his own venture. He has always been handy, tinkering with gadgets since childhood.
But the lingering dream is to find his father, to one day walk into his home and say,
Im sorry I couldnt come sooner.
Then everything would fall into place. They would understand, forgive, hug, and finally be whole.
A cheap longlasting gel candle sells for £2.
Sometimes Ian catches himself still hearing his fathers voice, the way he used to hoist him onto his shoulders and say, Ready, champ, off we go? and then toss him gently into the air.
That night Ian dreams of his father again. He stands on a riverbank in an old coat, calling Ians name. His face is blurry, like through mist, but his eyes are the same dull greyfamily eyes.
Ians job is steady, but a single salary wont fund his own business, especially when he dreams big. So in the evenings he does side gigssetting up computers, smart home systems. He can visit two or three houses a night, fixing printers, routers, updating software. He knows every step by heart, and older clients especially appreciate his polite, patient manner.
One day a wealthy family from a gated community on the outskirts contacts him through a friend. They need a home network installed.
Arrive after six, please, the lady says. The lady of the house will show you whats needed.
Ian arrives on time, passes the gate, and pulls up to a white mansion with columns and tall windows. A young woman, about twentyfive, slim and dressed in a neat dress, opens the door.
Are you the technician? Please, come in. The study is my fathers. Hes away on business, but he asked that everything be set up today, she says with a gentle smile.
Inside, the house is bright and spacious, filled with a faint, expensive perfume. In the living room sits a grand piano, walls adorned with paintings, bookshelves, framed photos. The study is austere: dark wood, a green desk lamp, a massive oak desk, a leather armchair.
Ian nods, gathers his tools, and sits at the computer. Everything runs smoothly until his eyes fall on a photograph on the wall. A young couple: a woman in a white dress with flowers in her hair, beside her a man in a grey suit, both smiling.
Even though years have changed their features, the inner voice tells him with certainty: this is him. His father.
Ian stands, walks over. Grey eyes, familiar cheekbones, a dimple by the mouth. There is no mistaking it.
Excuse me who is in this picture? he asks quietly.
The young woman looks surprised.
Thats my dad. Do you know him?
Ian feels his throat tighten, heart pounding as if the woman might hear his breath. He manages:
I think perhaps. He exhales heavily. Could you tell me how your parents met? Im sorry if this sounds odd, but it means a lot to me.
She fidgets a little, then answers:
My dad had an unusual fate. He was once an ordinary engineer. He met my mother by chance on holiday, and they fell in love
She studies Ian and says:
You look like youve gone pale. Are you okay? Maybe a glass of water?
Ian nods silently. She heads to the kitchen, leaving him alone, unsure why hes doing this. Perhaps it feels unethical, perhaps illegal, but he opens My PC and begins to search.
The Personal folder is passwordprotected. Ian types his birthdate, and it works. Inside are old photos, scanned documents, and an untitled text file. He clicks it.
The text begins abruptly, as if a longsuppressed letter:
I knew from the first day this was wrong. You were beautiful, intelligent, welloff and in love. I was nobody, just starting out. I lied about being single, about having no family. I thought it would be a brief fling. But you introduced me to your parents as your fiancé, we started planning a wedding I wanted to run, but I couldnt. Your trust, your fathers money held me. They gave me new papers, a passport without a marriage stamp. Im not proud. I thought it would make things easier for everyone. Lina will forget. Our son is still youngwont understand. Now I dont even recognise myself. I live in comfort, but each morning I drink coffee feeling like a traitor. Theres no way back
Ians eyes cloud. He leans back, staring at a point on the wall, unsure what to feelanger, contempt, sorrow?
Before him lies decades of betrayal. A mother who spent her life scraping together pennies, never remarrying, living for her son. And a father who lived in luxury, rewrote his destiny, and walked away.
Ian finishes the job quickly, receives a white envelope with cash, and leaves. He cant recall how he got to his car. He slides into the drivers seat, hands trembling.
For three days he cant find the words, rehearses how to tell the truth. Eventually his mother, as always, senses something:
Somethings wrong, Ian? You look out of sorts
He tells her everythingabout the house, the photo, the laptop, the letter he read.
She listens in silence, never interrupting, only once closing her eyes and clenching her fists until her knuckles turn white.
When he stops, the room is heavy with quiet. She rises, walks to the window, stares out at the garden for a long moment, then says calmly:
You know it eases me.
Ian is startled.
Eases you?
Yes. Ive spent years asking Why?. Is he in trouble? Is he ill? What if? And now I know. He isnt in trouble. He simply chose a different life.
She sits down, leans on her hands. There are no tears in her eyes, only fatigue, the kind that follows a long journey.
I no longer have to wait, Ian. I dont need to fear I missed something. Im free.
Im sorry for digging this up, he whispers.
She shakes her head.
No apologies needed. Everything happens for a reason, even if we dont get it right away.
She pulls him into a hug, the same hug she gave him when he fell off his bike as a child.
Youre my greatest gift, she says, pausing, and even he she sighs, he gave me you. So nothing was wasted.
That evening Ian sits by the pond, watching the sky blush pink at sunset. He realises he no longer wants to see his father, no longer wants words, explanations, or empty apologies. His dad is not the man in a distant mansion; he is an image from childhoodwarm, pure, uncomplicated. Let it stay there, in memory.
Living isnt about holding onto hatred or dragging the past that no longer walks beside you. Its about learning to let go.
And that night, Ian finally lets everything go, completely.
