Where did you get that picture? Evan went pale when he saw the photograph of his vanished father on the wall
When Evan came home from the factory, his mother was on the balcony of their terraced house, watering the daisies. She leaned over the hanging pots, coaxing the leaves to unfurl. A gentle, steady light seemed to halo her face.
Mum, youre like a bee, Evan shrugged off his jacket, stepped forward and slipped his arms around her shoulders. Another day on your feet?
Oh, whats that to you, she laughed, the kind of soft chuckle that always softened the room. My souls on holiday. Look at the blooms. The scent isnt just a balcony; it feels like the whole Kew Gardens.
She giggled, a quiet, warm sound. Evan inhaled the perfume of the flowers and was instantly taken back to his childhood flat, where the only garden was a pot of cactus that never stopped shedding its spines.
Years slipped by. Now his mother spent most weekends at the cottage hed gifted her for her golden anniversary. A modest stone cottage, but with a sprawling allotment where she could plant anything. In spring she sowed seedlings, in summer she tended the greenhouse, in autumn she harvested roots, and in winter she waited for the first thaw.
Evan knew that, however bright her smile, a quiet, luminous melancholy lived in her eyes, a sorrow that would not fade until her deepest wish was fulfilled to see the man she had waited for all her life.
Her husband. One ordinary morning he left for work and never returned. Evan was only five. Margaret whispered that day he had kissed her temple, winked at their son, and said, Be brave. Then he walked out, never knowing he was stepping into forever.
There were statements, the constabulary, the searches. Neighbours muttered, Maybe he left, He has another family, Something happened. But Margaret kept saying,
He wouldnt have just walked away. If hes gone, he cant come back.
That thought haunted Evan for more than thirty years. He was convinced his father could not have abandoned them; he simply could not.
After school, Evan enrolled at the technical college, though his heart yearned for journalism. He knew he had to stand on his own feet quickly. Margaret worked nights as a hospital orderly, never complaining. Even when her feet swelled and her eyes reddened from sleeplessness, shed say,
Its all right, Evan. Just study.
So he studied, and at night he scoured missingpersons databases, leafed through archives, posted on forums. Hope never dimmed; it grew into his very essence. He became strong, aware he must be the rock for his mother.
When his first good job came, he first cleared his mothers debts, then set aside savings, and eventually bought the very same cottage. He turned to her and said,
All right, Mum, now you can rest.
She wept openly, unashamed, and he hugged her, whispering,
Youve earned this a thousand times. Thank you for everything.
Evan dreamed of a family, of a house where the air smelled of stew and fresh scones, where Sundays gathered kin and childrens laughter rang. Yet for now he toiled, gathering money for his own venture. His hands had always been handy, tinkering since he was a boy.
But his heart still clung to a single dream to find his father. He imagined the day he would walk into a house and say,
Forgive me I couldnt earlier.
Then everything would fall into place. They would understand, forgive, embrace, and the world would finally feel real.
In the middle of a night, Evan sometimes thought he could still hear his fathers voice, the way he would lift him onto his shoulders and say, Ready, brave lad, off we go? and fling him skyward.
That night, in his dream, his father stood on a riverbank in an old coat, calling his name. His face was blurred like mist, but his eyes grey, familiar, kin pierced through.
Evans job paid steadily, but a single salary didnt stretch far enough for his own business ambitions. So he moonlighted fixing computers and smart home systems. In an evening he could visit two or three houses, swapping printers, routers, updates a memory bank of every gadget. The elderly valued him for his patience, his polite explanations, his refusal to push anything.
One day a wealthy family from a gated village outside Birmingham hired him to set up their home network.
Arrive after six, they instructed, the lady of the house will show you everything.
Evan arrived on time, passed the gate, and pulled up to a white Georgian house with columns and large sash windows. The door opened for a young woman, about twentyfive, slender, in a tasteful dress.
Are you the technician? Please, come in. All the equipment is in my fathers study. Hes away on business but asked you to finish everything today, she said with a gentle smile.
Inside, the house was bright, spacious, scented faintly with expensive perfume. The living room held a grand piano, walls lined with oil paintings, shelves of books, photographs in gilt frames. The study was austere: dark wood, a green lamp, a massive desk, a leather armchair.
Evan set his tools down, settled at the computer, and worked as usual until a glance caught a framed 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 time had altered features, a voice inside shouted unmistakably: this was him. His father.
Evan rose, approached. Grey eyes, familiar cheekbones, a dimple by the lip. No mistake.
Excuse me who is in this picture? he asked softly.
The woman looked surprised.
Thats my father. Do you know him?
Evan swallowed, heart pounding as if the woman might hear it. He managed,
I think perhaps. He exhaled heavily. Could you tell me how your parents met? Im sorry if this sounds odd, but it matters to me.
She shifted, a hint of embarrassment, then answered,
My dad led an unusual life. He was an ordinary engineer once. He met my mother by chance on a holiday, and they fell in love
She studied Evan a moment longer.
You look like youve gone pale. Are you alright? Want some water?
He nodded silently. She drifted to the kitchen, and he stood there, unsure why he was doing this. Perhaps it felt wrong, perhaps it was illegal, but he opened My Computer on the laptop and began searching.
The Personal folder was passwordprotected. He typed his birthdate, and, miraculously, it opened. Inside were old photos, scanned documents, and an untitled text file. He clicked it.
The text began abruptly, like a letter never sent:
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 affair. But then you introduced me to your parents as a fiancé, we began planning a wedding I wanted to run, but I couldnt. Your trust, your fathers money held me. They forged 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 smallwont understand. Now I dont recognise myself. I live in plenty, yet each morning I drink coffee with the taste of betrayal. Theres no going back
Evans eyes clouded. He slumped back in the chair, staring at a point on the wall, unable to decide what to feelanger, contempt, sorrow?
Before him lay a betrayal stretched over decades. A mother who had spent her life collecting pennies, never remarrying, living only for her son. And a father who had slipped into luxury, rewrote his fate, and vanished.
Evan finished the job quickly, collected a crisp white envelope of cash, and left. He didnt remember how he reached his car. He sat, closed the door, hands trembling.
For three days he could not find words, rehearsing how to speak the truth. Yet his mother, as always, sensed something:
Something wrong, Evan? You seem not yourself
He told her everything. The house, the photograph, the laptop, the story hed read.
She listened in silence, never interrupting, only once closing her eyes and clenching her fists until her knuckles whitened.
When he fell silent, a heavy quiet filled the room. Then she rose, walked to the window, stared far into the distance, and finally said calmly,
You know it eases me.
Evan blinked.
Eases you?
Yes. Ive spent years asking why. Is he in trouble? Is he ill? What if? All the same circle. Now I know. He isnt suffering. He simply chose another life.
She sat at the table, hands folded, eyes void of tears, only tired the sort of fatigue that follows a long journey.
I no longer have to wait, Evan. Im not afraid I missed something. Im free.
Im sorry for finding this, he whispered.
She shook her head.
No apologies needed. Everything happens for a reason. We just dont always see it straight away.
She rose and embraced him, the same way she had when he fell off his bike as a child.
Youre my greatest gift. And even he she paused, thoughtful he gave me you. So nothing was wasted.
That evening Evan sat by the pond, watching the sky blush pink at sunset. He realised he no longer wanted to see his father. He didnt need words, explanations, or hollow apologies.
His dad was not the man in a distant manor; he was a childhood image, warm, pure, nothing superfluous. Let him remain there, in memory.
To live is not to clutch at evil, not to drag the past that no longer walks beside you. To live is to learn to let go.
And that night, under the pinktinged sky, Evan finally released everything, forever.
A rare, longlasting candle in gel form, £0.59.
