“Where did you get this photo?” James paled as he stared at the picture of his missing father.
When James returned home from work, his mother was watering the flowers on the balcony. Bent over the hanging planters, she carefully adjusted the leaves, her face glowing with quiet contentment.
“Mum, busy as a bee, as always,” James said, hanging up his jacket before walking over and giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “On your feet all day again?”
“Oh, this isn’t work,” she waved him off with a soft smile. “It’s soothing. Look how everything’s blooming—smells more like Kew Gardens than a balcony.”
She laughed—quietly, warmly, the way she always did. James breathed in the delicate floral scent, and without thinking, his mind drifted back to childhood. Back then, they’d lived in a cramped flat, and their “garden” had been a single pot of aloe vera on the windowsill, forever shedding its leaves.
So much had changed.
Now, thanks to the cottage he’d bought her for her fiftieth birthday, she spent most of her time gardening. A modest house, but with a sprawling plot where she could grow whatever she liked. In spring, she nurtured seedlings; in summer, she tended her greenhouse; in autumn, she jarred her harvest; and in winter, she waited for spring to come again.
But James knew that behind her smiles, there was always a quiet sadness in her eyes. One that wouldn’t fade until her deepest wish came true—to see the man she’d waited for all her life.
His father. He’d left for work one distant morning and never returned. James had been five. Mum told him that morning, his father had kissed her temple, winked at James, and said, “Be good, lad.” Then he walked out, not knowing it would be forever.
After that came police reports, searches. Relatives, neighbours, friends—they all whispered: “maybe he ran off,” “another family, perhaps,” “or something worse.” But his mother always said the same thing:
“He wouldn’t just leave. That means he couldn’t come back.”
Even now, thirty years later, James believed it. His father *couldn’t* have abandoned them. He just couldn’t.
After school, James went to university for engineering, though secretly he’d dreamed of journalism. But he needed to stand on his own feet quickly. His mother worked night shifts as a carer, never complaining, even when her legs ached and her eyes burned from exhaustion. “It’s alright, love,” she’d say. “Things will get better. Just focus on your studies.”
So he studied. And at night, he scoured missing persons databases, dug through old records, posted on forums. Hope didn’t die—it grew stronger, became part of him. He grew up knowing that in his father’s absence, he had to be his mother’s rock.
When he landed his first proper job, the first thing he did was pay off her debts. Then he opened a savings account. Then he bought her the cottage. “That’s it, Mum,” he said. “Now you rest.”
She’d cried that day—not hiding her tears. He just held her and whispered, “You deserve this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.”
Now, James dreamed of his own family. A home that smelled of Sunday roast and fresh bread. Where loved ones gathered and children laughed. Until then, he worked hard, saving to start his own business. He was good with his hands—always had been.
But one dream never faded—finding his father. He imagined the man walking through their door one day, saying, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come back sooner.” And they’d understand, forgive, embrace as three. Then finally, things would be as they were always meant to be.
Sometimes, James still remembered his father’s voice. How he’d lift him up and say, “Ready, my little knight? Let’s fly!”—then toss him in the air before catching him tight.
That night, as he slept, James dreamed of him again. This time, his father stood by a riverbank in an old overcoat, calling for him. His face was blurred, as if seen through mist—but his eyes were the same. Grey, deep, familiar.
His job paid steadily, but as they say, wages alone won’t get you far if you’re saving to start a business. So he took side jobs—fixing computers, installing smart systems. Some evenings, he’d make two or even three stops: a printer refusing to print, internet cutting out, software needing updates—he knew it all inside out. Older clients adored him—polite, patient, never pushy.
That day, a request came through a contact: a wealthy family in a gated estate outside London needed their home network set up.
“Come after six. The lady of the house will be there to guide you,” they told him.
James arrived on time. Security checked his pass before letting him through. The house loomed ahead—white columns, floor-to-ceiling windows. A young woman, mid-twenties, opened the door. Slender, elegant, dressed in a flowing summer dress.
“You’re the technician? Come in, please. The equipment’s in Father’s study. He’s away on business but wanted this done today,” she said with a polite smile.
James followed her down a long hallway. The air smelled expensive—like polished wood and faint cologne. The house was immaculate: a grand piano in the living room, oil paintings on the walls, bookshelves, framed photos. The study was all dark wood, a green desk lamp, a sleek monitor, and a leather chair.
He got to work. Everything was routine—until his gaze caught a photo on the wall. A young couple. A woman in a white dress, flowers in her hair. Beside her—a man in a grey suit, smiling. Even blurred by time, the voice in James’s head was clear: *That’s him. Father.*
He stood, stepped closer, studying it. The grey eyes, the same jawline, the same dimple when he smiled. Definitely him.
“Excuse me… who’s in this photo?” James asked carefully.
The woman blinked. “That’s my father. Do you know him?”
James didn’t know what to say. He stared at the picture like it was a ghost. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure she’d hear it. Finally, he forced out, “I… think so. Could you—tell me how your parents met? I know it sounds strange, but it’s important.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Father’s had an unusual life. He was just an engineer when they met—on holiday. He and Mum fell in love…” She studied him. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale. Should I get you water?”
James nodded. The moment she left, he did something he knew was wrong. But he opened the computer’s file explorer and started searching.
A folder labelled *Personal*—password-protected. On a whim, he typed his own birthdate. To his shock, it worked. Inside—old photos, scanned documents… and a nameless text file. He clicked it.
The words began abruptly, like a confession never meant to be read:
*”I knew it was wrong from the start. You were beautiful, clever, wealthy, and in love. I was nobody—just starting out, and it felt like life had handed me a chance. Yes, I lied. Said I wasn’t married, that I had no one. I thought it’d be a fling. Never imagined it would go this far. But then—you introduced me to your parents as your fiancé, we planned the wedding… I didn’t know how to escape. I wanted to leave, but you held me—with trust, your father with money. They offered me everything except freedom. I gave in. Friends arranged new papers—a passport without a marriage record. I’m not proud. But back then, it seemed kinder. That Lydia would move on, that my boy was too young to remember. Now… I don’t recognise myself. I live in luxury, but every morning, I drink my coffee knowing I’m a traitor. There’s no way back…”*
James leaned back in the chair, stunned. He didn’t know what to feel. Anger? Disgust? Pity?
Here was betrayal, laid bare. His mother—who’d scraped every penny for his school shoes, who’d loved, waited, never remarried—had lived in hope. While he’d lived in “luxury,” as he’d called it. Erased them. Rewritten his life.
James finished the job swiftly, accepted an envelope of crisp banknotes, and left. He barely remembered driving home. Only when he was inside his car, door shut, did he notice his hands shaking.
He put off telling her, searching for the right moment. But as always, his mother sensed it.
“Something’s wrong, love. You’ve been off for days…”
So he told her. Everything. The house, the photo, the file. The truth.
She listened silently, never interrupting. Only once did she shut her eyes, gripping the table until her knuckles whitened.
When he finished, the roomShe touched his cheek gently and whispered, “It’s time to let go, love,” and in that moment, James finally did.
