“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. Leaning over the hanging planters, she gently adjusted the leaves. Her face glowed with a quiet contentment.
“Busy as a bee again, Mum?” James hung up his coat, walked over, and hugged her shoulders. “Been on your feet all day?”
“Oh, it’s hardly work,” she replied with a smile, brushing it off. “It’s good for the soul. Look how everything’s blooming—like a proper garden, not just a balcony.”
She laughed softly, warmly, the way she always did. James inhaled the sweet floral scent and couldn’t help but remember their old days in the cramped flat, where their “garden” had been a single potted kalanchoe that shed leaves constantly.
So much had changed since then.
Now, his mother spent most of her time in the cottage he’d bought for her as an anniversary gift. A modest house, but with a sprawling garden where she could grow whatever she pleased. In spring, she nurtured seedlings; in summer, she fussed over her greenhouse; in autumn, she jarred her own preserves. And in winter, she waited for spring to return.
But James knew, no matter how she smiled, there was always a quiet sadness in her eyes—one that wouldn’t fade until her deepest wish was fulfilled: to see the man she’d waited for her entire life.
His father. He’d left for work one distant morning and never returned. James had been five. His mother told him how his father had kissed her temple, winked at him, and said, “Be good, lad.” Then he walked away, not knowing it was for the last time.
There had been police reports, searches. Relatives, neighbours, acquaintances whispered: “Maybe he ran off,” “Perhaps another family,” “Or something terrible happened.” But his mother always said the same:
“He wouldn’t have just left. That means he couldn’t return.”
Even now, decades later, James clung to that thought. His father wouldn’t have abandoned them. He simply couldn’t have.
After school, James studied engineering, though he secretly dreamed of journalism. But he knew he had to stand on his own feet. His mother worked night shifts as a hospital cleaner, never complaining, even when her legs ached and her eyes burned from exhaustion.
“It’ll all work out, love,” she’d say. “Just focus on your studies.”
He did. And at night, he scoured missing persons databases, hunted through old records, posted on forums. Hope didn’t fade—it grew stronger, shaping his character. He became resilient. 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, he cleared her debts first, then set up a savings account, then bought her the cottage.
“That’s it, Mum. Now you rest.”
She cried openly that day. He just held her and said, “You’ve earned this a thousand times over.”
Now, James dreamed of his own family—a home that smelled of roast dinners and fresh bread, where loved ones gathered on Sundays and children’s laughter filled the air. For now, he worked hard, saving to start his own business. He was skilled—had always been good with his hands.
But one dream still burned inside him: to find his father. To have him walk through their door one day and say,
“Sorry I couldn’t come back sooner.”
And they’d understand, forgive, embrace as three. And finally, everything would be as it should have been.
Sometimes, James still remembered his father’s voice—how he’d scoop him up and say, “Ready for take-off, champ?” before tossing him high and catching him tight.
That night, James dreamed of him again. This time, his father stood by a riverbank in an old coat, calling for him. His face was blurred, as if seen through mist, but his eyes—grey, deep, familiar—were unmistakable.
James’s job was steady, but as they say, wages alone won’t take you far, especially when you’re saving for a business. So he took side jobs—fixing computers, installing smart systems. In an evening, he could visit two or three households: a printer here, Wi-Fi there, software updates everywhere. Clients, especially the elderly, loved him—polite, patient, never pushy.
That day, a referral came through: a wealthy family in a gated estate needed their home network set up.
“Come after six. The lady of the house will be in,” he was told.
James arrived on time, cleared security, and stopped outside a grand house with white columns and floor-to-ceiling windows. A young woman, twenty-five at most, opened the door. Elegant—slender, graceful, in a floral dress.
“You’re the technician? Please, come in. The equipment’s in Father’s study. He’s abroad but asked for this to be done today.”
James followed her down a long hallway. The air smelled of something expensive, refined. The house was immaculate—a grand piano in the living room, framed photos on the walls. The study was all dark wood and leather, a sleek monitor on the desk.
He got to work. Everything would’ve been routine if his gaze hadn’t caught on a photo by the wall. A couple—the woman in a white dress, flowers in her hair. The man beside her, smiling in a grey suit. Time had aged his features, but James’s heart hammered.
*That’s him. Father.*
He stood, stepped closer. The same grey eyes, the same jawline, the same dimple when he smiled.
“Sorry—who’s in this photo?” James managed.
The girl blinked. “My father. Do you know him?”
James didn’t know what to say. He stared at the picture like it was a ghost. His pulse roared in his ears. Finally, he forced out, “I… think I might. Could you tell me how your parents met?”
She hesitated but answered. “Father had an unusual past. He was just an engineer when they met—on holiday. He fell for Mum, and…” She studied him. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
James nodded. She hurried to fetch water, and he—he didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe illegal. But he opened the file explorer and searched.
A folder, *Personal*, password-protected. James tried his birth date—it worked. Inside: old photos, scanned documents… and a nameless text file. He clicked it.
The words hit like a confession, something long carried but never sent.
*”I knew it was wrong from the start. You were beautiful, smart, wealthy, and in love. I was nobody. Fresh in town, starting over. It felt like luck. Yes, I lied—said I was single. Thought it’d just be a fling. Never meant for it to go this far. But then it spiralled—you introduced me to your parents, we planned a wedding… I didn’t know how to escape. Your trust held me. Your father’s money sealed it. They offered everything but freedom. I gave in. Old friends forged papers—a new passport, no marriage stamp. I’m not proud. But back then, I told myself it was kinder. That Margaret 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 coffee tasting betrayal. There’s no way back…”*
James leaned back, stunned. Anger? Pity? Disgust? The truth was a lifetime of betrayal. His mother—scrimping, saving, believing, waiting—had lived without him. While his father chose *this.*
He finished the job, took the payment in crisp notes, and left. He barely remembered driving home. Only when the car door slammed did he notice his shaking hands.
He delayed telling her, searching for the right moment. But his mother, as ever, sensed it.
“Something’s wrong, love. You’ve been distant.”
So he told her—everything. The house, the photo, the file. The story he’d read.
She listened in silence. Just once, she shut her eyes, knuckles whitening.
When he finished, the room was still. Then she stood, walked to the window, and gazed out a long while. Finally, she said softly,
“You know… I feel lighter.”
James frowned. “Lighter?”
“Yes. All these years, I’ve lived with one question—*why?* ‘Was he in trouble? Was he suffering?’ Over and over. Now I know. He wasn’t. He just… chose differently.”
She sat at the table, resting her head in her hands. No anger, no tears—just weariness, like after a long journey.
“I don’t have to wait anymore, love. No more fearing I missed something. I’m free.”
“Sorry I… found this,” he murmured.
She shook her head. “Don’t be. Things happen for a reason. We just don’t always see it at first.”
She hugged him then,As the sun dipped below the horizon, James realized that sometimes the greatest closure comes not from answers, but from letting go.
