Where did you find that photograph? William went ashen the instant his eyes fell on the picture of his vanished father hanging on the wall.
When William came home from the railway works, his mother, Mary, was perched on the balcony of their flat, tending to the potted plants. She leaned over the hanging baskets, gently smoothing the leaves back into place. A warm, calm light seemed to halo her face.
Mum, youre buzzing like a bee, William said, slipping off his overcoat and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Another day spent on your feet?
Oh, its no bother, she laughed, wiping a speck of soil from her cheek. My spirit rests. Look how everythings in bloom. The scent is as if the whole of Kew Gardens were on this little balcony.
Her chuckle was soft, the sort of goodnatured laugh she always gave. William inhaled the sweet perfume and was carried back to his childhood, when they lived in a cramped council block and the only garden was a wilting kalanchoe that constantly shed its leaves.
Years slipped by. Mary now spent most of her time at a cottage William had bought her for her golden wedding anniversary. It was a modest stone house nestled in the rolling hills of the Cotswolds, but it boasted a generous plot plant whatever you like. In spring the beds burst with seedlings, summer brought the greenhouse humming, autumn yielded the vegetables, and winter was simply a waiting game for the next thaw.
Yet William knew that beneath Marys everbright smile lived a quiet, luminous sorrow. It would not lift until the one wish she held close was fulfilled to see the man she had waited for all her life.
Her husband had left for work on an ordinary Tuesday and never returned. William was only five. Mary would later recall that morning: his father had kissed her temple, winked at his son, and said, Be a good lad, before walking away, unaware that it would be forever.
The police were called, statements taken, neighbours whispered in the local pub: Maybe hes gone off with another, Perhaps something terrible happened. But Mary kept repeating, He wouldnt simply walk away. He cant come back.
That belief haunted William for more than thirty years. He was convinced his father could not have abandoned them; he simply could not.
After school William entered a technical college, though his heart yearned to be a journalist. He knew he had to stand on his own feet quickly. Mary worked as a nurse in the city hospital, taking night shifts without complaint. Even when her feet swelled and her eyes were rimmed red from sleeplessness she would say, Alls well, Will. Just keep learning.
So he studied. By night he scoured missingpersons registers, poured over archives, posted on forums. Hope never dimmed; it became the very core of him. He grew strong, knowing he had to be a rock for Mary.
When his first decent job came, he first cleared his mothers debts, then set aside savings, and finally bought the cottage he had promised her. One evening he told her, Now you can rest, Mum.
She wept, unabashed, and he wrapped her in his arms, whispering, Youve earned this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.
William dreamed of a home where the smell of roast beef and fresh scones filled the air, where Sundays gathered kin and childrens laughter rang through the rooms. For now he toiled, saving for his own venture, his hands always steady from the countless gadgets hed built since boyhood.
But the deepest longing was still to find his father, to have him step into the house one day and say, Forgive me I couldnt before. Then everything would fall into place, they would understand, forgive, and embrace as a trio.
A flickering gel candle, sold for £5, sat on a shelf, a reminder of the small comforts that persisted through time.
Sometimes William imagined still hearing his fathers voice, the way he used to lift him onto his shoulders and ask, Ready, lad, off we go? and then toss him into the air with a laugh.
One night, in a vivid dream, his father stood on a riverbank in an old coat, calling his name. The face was misted, but the grey eyes were unmistakably his own.
Williams job at the railway was steady, but a single wage never stretched far enough for a man with his own ambitions. So he took evening work fixing computers and smart systems, crisscrossing town to service two or three houses each night. He became the goto for the elderly polite, patient, never imposing, always explaining things clearly.
One day a request arrived through a family friend: a wealthy couple in a country estate on the outskirts needed a home network installed. Come after six, the note read. The lady will be home to show you everything.
He arrived promptly, passed the gate, and pulled up to a white mansion with towering columns and grand windows. The door was opened by a young woman, about twentyfive, delicate in a pale dress.
Youre the technician? Please, come in. Everythings in the study. Hes away on business but asked you to finish today, she said with a gentle smile.
Inside, the house was bright and spacious, scented faintly with expensive perfume. A piano sat in the lounge, paintings lined the walls, bookshelves held wellworn volumes, and photographs rested in gilt frames. The study was austere: dark oak desk, green lamp, massive leather chair.
William set his tools down and began his work. Everything ran smoothly until his gaze fell upon a photograph on the wall. A young couple: a woman in white, flowers in her hair, a man in a grey suit, both smiling.
The features were familiar the sharp cheekbones, the small dimple by the mouth, the grey eyes. A voice, deep and steady, seemed to echo, Its him.
He rose, approached, and asked softly, Excuse me who is this?
The woman stared at him, surprised. Thats my father. Do you know him?
William felt as if a phantom had stepped into the room. His heart hammered so hard the woman might have heard. He managed to say, I think perhaps. Could you tell me how your parents met? I know it sounds odd, but it matters to me.
She blushed, then replied, My dad had an unusual fate. He was once a simple engineer. He met my mother by chance on holiday, and they fell in love
She looked at William with concern. You look pale. Are you alright? Would you like some water?
He nodded silently. She drifted to the kitchen, leaving him alone with a question he could barely name. Perhaps it was unseemly, perhaps it was illegal, but he opened My Computer on the houses laptop. The Personal folder was protected; he entered his own birthdate and, miraculously, it opened. Inside were old photographs, scanned documents, and a nameless text file.
He clicked it open.
The letter began abruptly, as if the writer had finally summoned the courage:
I knew from the first day that this was wrong. You were beautiful, intelligent, welloff, and in love. I was no one, just starting out. I lied about being single, about having no ties. I thought it would be a brief affair, but you introduced me to your parents as a fiancé, we began planning a wedding I wanted to run, but couldnt. Your trust and your fathers money held me. They forged new papers, a passport without any marriage mark. Im not proud, but I thought it would make things easier for everyone. Lina will forget. Our son is still small wont understand. Now I dont recognise myself. I live in plenty, yet each morning I drink coffee feeling like a traitor. Theres no way back
Williams eyes clouded. He slumped back in the chair, staring at a point on the wall, unsure what to feel anger, disgust, pity? Before him lay a betrayal stretched over decades: a mother who had scraped together pennies, never remarried, lived for her son; a father who luxuriated, rewrote his life, and left his own family behind.
He finished the installation swiftly, received a crisp white envelope stuffed with cash, and left. He could not recall how he got to his car. He slipped into the drivers seat, hands trembling.
For three days he could not find the words to explain what he had uncovered. Eventually his mother, ever perceptive, asked, Something wrong, Will? You seem not yourself.
He recounted everything the house, the photograph, the laptop, the letter. She listened in silence, never interrupting, only once closing her eyes and clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white.
When he fell silent, a heavy hush settled over the room. She rose, walked to the window, gazed out at the distant fields, then turned and said softly, You know it eases me.
William stared, bewildered. Eases you?
Yes. All these years Ive lived with the question Why? Is he in trouble? What if hes suffering? looping round and round. Now I know. He isnt suffering; he simply chose a different life.
She sat at the kitchen table, palms resting on her knees. There were no tears, only fatigue the kind that follows a long journey.
Now I dont have to wait, Will. I need not fear Ive missed something. Im free, she declared.
Forgive me for digging this up, he whispered.
She shook her head. No apologies needed. Everything happens for the best, even if we dont see it straight away.
She pulled him into an embrace, the same warm hold shed given him when he fell off his bicycle as a child.
Youre my greatest gift, she said, pausing, and even he he gave me you. So perhaps nothing was wasted.
That evening William sat by the village pond, watching the sky blush pink as the sun set. He realised he no longer wanted to see his father, to hear explanations or empty apologies. His father was no longer the man in a distant manor; he was a childhood image, warm and uncomplicated. Let it stay there, in memory alone.
To live is not to cling to malice, nor to drag the past behind you when it no longer walks beside you. To live is to learn to let go.
And it was on that very night, with the ponds gentle ripple and the twilights soft sigh, that William finally released everything, once and for all.
