Where did you get that picture? I felt my throat go dry the moment I saw the photograph of the missing father on the wall.
When I got home from the factory, Mum was out on the balcony, tending to the potted plants. She leaned over the hanging baskets, gently smoothing the leaves. A calm, warm light seemed to glow from her face.
Mum, youre as busy as a honeybee, I said, shedding my jacket, stepping forward and slipping my arms around her shoulders. Another long day on your feet?
Oh, its no trouble at all, she laughed, wiping her hands on a tea towel. My spirit rests. Look at how everythings blooming. The scent is as if the whole garden is right here, not just this balcony.
She chuckled softly, the kind of gentle laugh shes always had. I inhaled the sweet perfume of the flowers and was instantly taken back to the flat we lived in as children, where the only garden was a pot of kalanchoe that constantly shed its leaves.
Years slipped by. Now Mum spends most of her time at the little cottage I bought her for her birthday. Its a modest house with a generous plot plant whatever you like. In spring we sow seedlings, in summer the greenhouse hums, in autumn we harvest, and in winter we simply wait for spring again.
But I knew that, no matter how brightly she smiled, a quiet, bright melancholy lived in her eyes. It would not lift until her deepest wish was fulfilled to see the man she has waited for all her life.
Her husband. He left for work on an ordinary morning and never came back. I was only five then. Mum would tell me how, that day, he kissed her temple as he always did, winked at his son and said, Be a good lad, and walked off, never knowing it would be forever.
After that came the reports, the police, the searches. Neighbours and relatives muttered, Maybe hes gone off with someone, Hes got another family, Something must have happened. But Mum kept saying,
He wouldnt just walk away. If hes gone, he cant return.
That thought haunted me for more than thirty years. I was convinced my father couldnt have left us. He simply couldnt.
After school I enrolled at a technical college, though deep down I dreamed of being a journalist. I knew I had to get on my feet quickly. Mum worked as a nurse at the local hospital, took night shifts, never complained. Even when her feet swelled and her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, shed say,
Itll be alright, Ian. The important thing is you keep learning.
So I studied. At night I scoured missingperson databases, dug through archives, posted on forums. Hope never faded; it grew into my driving force. I became strong because I knew I had to be Mums rock.
When I landed my first decent job, I first cleared Mums debts, then set aside savings, and eventually bought the cottage outright. I told her,
All right, Mum, now you can finally rest.
She wept openly, unashamed of her tears. I held her close and whispered,
Youve earned this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.
I dreamed of a family of my own a house where the kitchen smells of roast and fresh scones, where Sundays bring all the relatives together and childrens laughter fills the rooms. But for now I worked hard, saving for my own venture. My hands have always been handy; I loved tinkering since I was a lad.
Yet the core of my heart was a single wish to find my father. I imagined the day I would walk into a house and say,
Im sorry I couldnt do it earlier.
Then everything would fall into place. We would understand, forgive, embrace, and it would finally feel real.
On a rare, longlasting gel candle Id seen advertised for £2, I sometimes caught myself recalling his voice, the way he used to lift me onto his shoulders and say, Ready, my brave lad, lets go? and then launch me into the air, catching me safely afterward.
That night I dreamed of him again. He stood on a riverbank in an old coat, calling my name. His face was blurred, as if through mist, but his eyes grey, familiar, my own.
My job paid steadily, but a single salary wouldnt stretch far, especially when I wanted to start my own business. So in the evenings I took on side work setting up computers, smart home systems. In one night I could service two or three houses: a printer here, a router there, a software update everywhere. I knew the whole lot by heart, and the older folk especially appreciated my patience and clear explanations.
One day a wealthy family from a gated community outside Manchester asked me to install a home network. Their house guard gave me a pass and said,
Arrive after six. The lady of the house will be home and will show you whats needed.
I arrived on time, passed the gate, and pulled up to a white, columned house with grand windows. The door opened to a young woman, about twentyfive, slender, in a smart dress.
Are you the technician? Come in. Everythings in my fathers study. Hes away on business, but he asked you to finish everything today, she said with a light smile.
Inside, the house was bright and spacious, scented faintly with expensive perfume. The lounge held a grand piano, walls decorated with paintings, bookshelves, family photographs in frames. The study was austere: dark wood, a green lamp, a massive desk, a leather chair.
I set my tools down and began working at the computer. Everything ran smoothly until my eyes fell on a photograph on the wall. A young couple: a woman in a white dress with flowers in her hair, a man in a grey suit, both smiling.
Although the years had altered their features, the voice inside me rang clear: that was him. My father.
I stood, moved toward the picture. Grey eyes, familiar cheekbones, a dimple beside the mouth. No mistake could be made.
Excuse me who is this in the photo? I asked softly.
The young woman stared at me, surprised.
Thats my dad. Do you know him?
I was at a loss for words. I stared at the picture as if Id seen a ghost. My heart hammered so hard the woman might have heard it. Finally I managed,
I think perhaps. I exhaled heavily. Could you tell me how your parents met? Im sorry if this sounds odd, but it matters a great deal to me.
She hesitated, then replied,
My dad had an unusual fate. He was once a regular engineer. He met my mum by chance on a holiday, and they fell in love
She looked closely at me,
You look pale. Are you alright? Need some water?
I nodded silently. She went to the kitchen, and I stayed, not quite sure why I was doing this. It felt almost improper, perhaps illegal, but I opened My Computer on the laptop shed left unattended. The Personal folder was passwordprotected. I typed my birthdate, and it unlocked. Inside were old photos, scanned documents, and a nameless text file. I clicked it.
The text began abruptly, like a letter long left unsent:
I knew from the first day that this was wrong. You were beautiful, intelligent, welloff, and in love. I was nobody, just starting out. I lied, saying I was single, that I had no family. I thought it would be a brief fling. But you introduced me to your parents as a fiancé, and we began planning a wedding I wanted to run, but couldnt. Your trust and your fathers money kept me. They gave me new papers, a passport without any marriage mark. Im not proud. I thought it would make things easier for everyone. Lida will forget. Our son is still young he wont understand. Now I dont recognize myself. I live in comfort, yet each morning I drink coffee feeling like a traitor. Theres no going back
My eyes clouded. I slumped back in the chair, staring at a single point, unsure what to feelrage, disgust, sorrow? Before me lay decades of betrayal. A mother who worked all her life, scrimping pennies, never marrying again, living for her son. And a father who had slipped into a life of luxury, abandoned his family, rewrote his own story.
I finished the job quickly, collected a white envelope stuffed with cash, and left. I cant recall how I got to my car. I sat, closed the door, hands trembling.
For three days I could not find the words to explain. Eventually Mum sensed something was wrong.
Something happened, Ian? You look like youre not yourself
I told her everything the house, the photograph, the laptop, the file. She listened in silence, never interrupting, only once closing her eyes and clenching her fists until her knuckles turned white.
When I fell silent, the room became still. She rose, went to the window, stared far into the distance, then said softly,
You know its a relief.
I was taken aback.
Relief?
Yes. Ive lived for years with that question Why? wondering if he was in trouble, if he was suffering. And now I know. He isnt suffering; he simply chose another life.
She sat down, leaned on her hands, eyes void of tears, only fatigue the kind that follows a long journey.
Now I dont have to wait, Ian. I dont have to fear that I missed something. Im free.
Im sorry I dug this up, I whispered.
She shook her head.
No apologies needed. Everything happens for the best, even if we dont see it straight away.
She stood, embraced me just as she had when I fell off my bike as a child.
Youre my greatest gift. And even he she paused, thoughtful he gave me you. So nothing was wasted.
That evening I sat by the pond, watching the sky blush pink at sunset. I realised I no longer wanted to see my father. I didnt want words, explanations, or empty apologies. My dad was not the man living in some distant manor; he was a childhood image warm, pure, uncomplicated. Let him stay there, in memory.
Living isnt about clinging to spite, nor dragging a past that no longer walks beside you. Its about learning to let go. And that night I finally released everything, once and for all.
