“Who are you to me now?” Thirty years later, my father returned to my life… only to end up in hospital straight away.
Alex returned home from work. He pulled into the car park of a high-rise in a quiet neighbourhood of Chelmsford, switched off the engine, popped the boot, and hauled out two heavy bags of shopping before heading towards the entrance. Just as he reached to punch in the code for the door, he heard someone call his name.
“Al? Is that you?”
Alex turned. An old man sat on the bench—unkempt, in a tattered coat, with a greying, tangled beard and dull eyes. He looked like a vagrant. Alex frowned.
“Who are you?”
“Al… It’s me—Victor. Your father. Don’t you recognise me?”
Alex recoiled as if struck. His father. The same man who had abandoned him and his mother nearly thirty years ago, when he was only nine. And now here he sat, as if nothing had happened.
“I got your address from Lydia—your late mother’s friend. She told me… about Helen’s passing. I never knew. I didn’t hear a thing. God, how she must have suffered, and I was… nowhere.”
“Where *were* you?” Alex snapped. “Where were you when Mum cried herself to sleep? When I made her tea because you’d gone off ‘for a pint’ again? When you attacked her—attacked *me*? Forgotten? I haven’t.”
“Son… why dredge up the past? Things weren’t easy with Kate either. At first, it was all laughs—drinking, celebrating my freedom. Then… it soured. Money, rows. We never had kids. Her daughter kicked me out in the end. And here I am—no one. But remember how I took you to the park? Bought you that fizzy drink?”
“Are you serious? One bottle of pop makes up for *everything*? Stole the last of our rent money before walking out? Spat in Mum’s face when you left for your ‘better life’? Forgotten that? *I* haven’t!”
Alex spun on his heel and marched into the building, leaving his father on the bench. His hands shook with rage. At home, his wife, Alice, took one look at him.
“Good Lord, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“My father. Showed up. Sat outside—filthy, in rags. Said he’s got no one left, wants help. Thirty years of silence, and now he remembers he has a son!”
“Maybe… just talk to him?”
“He’s *nothing* to me. Not an ounce of pity!”
Alice held her tongue. Alex retreated to the bedroom but didn’t sleep. Memories flooded back—his mother’s sobs, his own screams, the night his father dragged a suitcase out and slammed the door.
Three days later, his father waited by the entrance again. Hunched, hopeful.
“Son… I understand. But you’ve made something of yourself. Surely you could spare a bit of food, or a corner somewhere?”
“Where were *you* when I outgrew my school shoes? When Mum was ill? No one helped me then. I owe you *nothing*. Get lost.”
His father hung his head, silent.
The next morning, a knock at the door. A young woman in scrubs.
“Mr. Alex? Your father’s at Chelmsford General. He was beaten—argued with someone on the street. He asked for you. Said he’s got no one else…”
“And? I’m no kin to him. He’s nothing to me.”
“But… he said he loved you. I’m sorry.”
As she left: “Ward 3, if you change your mind…”
Alice had overheard.
“Al… Should we go? Just see how he is?”
An hour later, they arrived with food and clean clothes. The doctor met them.
“It’s bad. His liver—years of drink. He hasn’t got long.”
In the ward, his father’s eyes welled up at the sight of Alex.
“You came… Knew you would. Alice, is it? My daughter-in-law… Any grandchildren? Just once—I’d like to see…”
Days later, they brought their little girl. The old man gazed at her as if she were a miracle. Stroked her hand, wept.
“Lord… You look just like your gran. So beautiful… Be happy, love.”
On the fourth day, he called Alex close.
“Forgive me, son… For all of it. For not loving you. For breaking your mother. Forgive me…”
Alex squeezed his hand. Tight. Wordless. It was the only way to say, *”I have.”*
A week later, his father was gone. Alex arranged the funeral himself. Buried him beside his mother. No one else came to say goodbye. But for the first time in years, his chest felt light.
He owed nothing. Yet he’d done what he had to do—his conscience clear.
