“Who are you to me now?”—Thirty years later, my father walked back into my life… and straight into a hospital bed.
James pulled into the car park of his flat in a quiet neighbourhood of Nottingham, switched off the engine, and popped the boot open. He grabbed two heavy bags of groceries and headed towards the entrance. Just as he was about to key in the door code, someone called his name.
“Jim? Is that you?”
He turned. A dishevelled old man sat on the bench—weather-beaten, wearing a tattered coat, his grey beard tangled, eyes dull. He looked homeless. James frowned.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“Jim… It’s me, Victor. Your dad. Don’t you recognise me?”
James recoiled as if struck. His father. The same man who’d walked out on him and his mum almost thirty years ago, when he was just nine. And now here he was, sitting like nothing had happened.
“I got your address from Lydia, your late mother’s friend… She told me Margaret had passed. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything. God, how she must’ve suffered, and I was out there somewhere—”
“Where *were* you?” James cut in furiously. “Where were you when Mum cried herself to sleep? When I made her tea because you’d gone off ‘having fun’ again? When you hit her—hit *me*? Forgot about that, did you? I didn’t.”
“Son, what’s the point dragging it all up now? Life with Kat wasn’t easy either. At first, it was all laughs—drinking, celebrating me leaving. Then… things changed. Money fights, screaming matches. We never had kids. Her daughter eventually threw me out. That was that. Now I’m nobody. But remember when I took you to the park? Bought you that fizzy drink?”
“Are you *serious*? You think a bottle of pop makes up for it? For stealing the last bit of cash from the cupboard before you left? For spitting in Mum’s face when you walked out for your ‘better life’? Forgotten? *I* haven’t!”
James turned sharply and walked into the building, leaving his father on the bench. He was shaking with rage. Inside, his wife, Emily, met him.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost—”
“My *father*. He’s here. Sat outside—filthy, in rags. Says he’s got no one now, wants help. Thirty years of silence, and suddenly he remembers he *has* a son!”
“Maybe you should at least talk to him—”
“He’s *nothing* to me! Not a shred of sympathy!”
Emily stayed quiet. James went to the bedroom but couldn’t sleep. Memories rushed back—shouting, Mum’s tears, the night his father hauled a suitcase out and slammed the door.
Three days later, his father was waiting by the entrance again, timid, hopeful.
“Son… I get it. But you’ve made something of yourself. Surely you’ve got a little room, a bit of food—”
“Where were *you* when I needed school shoes? When Mum was ill? No one helped *me*. I owe you *nothing*. *Leave*.”
His father looked down, silent.
The next morning, a knock came. A young woman in scrubs stood there.
“Hello, are you James? Your father—he’s in hospital. He was beaten up, said he argued with someone. He asked me to tell you. He’s got no one else—”
“And? I’m not family. He’s *nothing* to me.”
“But… he said he’s got a son he loves. I’m sorry.”
As she turned to leave:
“He’s at City General, Ward Three…”
Emily had heard.
“Jim… Maybe we should go? Just see how he is—”
An hour later, they were at the hospital—food, clean clothes in hand. A doctor met them.
“Critical condition. Liver failure. Years of drinking. He hasn’t got long.”
In the ward, his father’s eyes filled with tears when he saw James.
“You came… I knew you would. And this is Emily? My daughter-in-law… Any grandchildren? Just to see one once…”
Days later, they brought their little girl. The old man gazed at her like a miracle, stroking her hand, weeping.
“God… You look just like your grandma. So beautiful… Be happy, love.”
On the fourth day, he called James over.
“Forgive me, son… For everything. For not loving you. For breaking your mother. Please.”
James gripped his hand. Tight. Silent. It was the only way to say, *I forgive you*.
A week later, his father was gone. James arranged the funeral himself—buried him next to Mum. No one else came. But for the first time in years, his chest felt light.
He owed nothing. Yet he’d done all he needed to—because it was right.
