**”Who Are You to Me Now?” – Thirty Years Later, My Father Walked Back into My Life… Only to End Up in Hospital**
I came home from work, pulling into the car park of our block of flats in Croydon. After parking, I yanked two heavy grocery bags from the boot and trudged towards the entrance. Just as I reached for the keypad, a voice called out.
“John? That you?”
I turned. On the bench sat an old man—unkempt, in a ragged jacket, a grey tangled beard framing his hollow stare. Looked like a beggar. I frowned.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
“John… it’s Victor. Your dad. Don’t you recognise me?”
I recoiled like I’d been slapped. *Dad*. The one who vanished thirty years ago when I was nine, leaving Mum and me behind. And now here he was, sitting there like no time had passed.
“Got your address from Linda, your mum’s old friend… She told me Susan passed. I didn’t know. Bloody hell, how she must’ve suffered, and I was off somewhere—”
“Where *were* you?” I cut in, sharp. “Where were you when Mum cried herself to sleep? When I made her tea because you’d gone off ‘out with the lads’ again? When you raised your hand to her—to *me*? Forgotten? I haven’t.”
“Son, what’s the use dragging it up? Things with Carol weren’t easy either. At first, it was fun—drinking, laughing, glad to be free. Then… well. Money rows, shouting matches. No kids of our own, and her daughter kicked me out in the end. Now I’m nothing. Remember how I took you to Hyde Park? Bought you that ice lolly?”
“Seriously? You think a bloody ice lolly makes up for it? For stealing our last twenty quid from the biscuit tin? For spitting in Mum’s face when you swanned off to your ‘better life’? Forgotten? *I* haven’t.”
I spun on my heel and marched inside, leaving him there. My hands shook with anger. My wife, Emma, met me in the hall.
“Christ, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“My *father*. Turned up. Sat outside like some tramp, said he’s got no one left. Thirty years of silence, and now he remembers he’s got a son!”
“Maybe you should talk to him…?”
“He’s *nothing* to me. Not a shred of sympathy.”
Emma said nothing. I shut myself in the bedroom, but sleep wouldn’t come—just memories: Mum’s sobs, the slam of the front door when he dragged his suitcase out.
Three days later, he was there again. Hunched, hopeful.
“John… I get it. But you’ve made something of yourself. Couldn’t you spare a bit of food, a corner to sleep…?”
“Where were *you* when I needed school shoes? When Mum was ill? No one helped *us*. I owe you *nothing*. Piss off.”
He looked at the ground, silent.
Next morning, a knock. A young woman in scrubs.
“Mr. Harris? Your father’s at St. Thomas’—got beaten in some street brawl. He asked for you. Said he’s got no one else…”
“And? He’s no family of mine.”
“But… he told us he had a son he loved. I’m sorry.”
As she turned to leave: “Ward 3, if you change your mind.”
Emma had heard.
“John… maybe we should go? Just see how he is…”
An hour later, we were there, clutching a bag of clean clothes and sandwiches. The doctor met us.
“It’s bad. Liver failure. Years of drinking. Not long left.”
In the ward, Dad’s eyes welled up when he saw me.
“You came… Knew you would. This Emma? My daughter-in-law… Any grandkids? Just one look, that’s all…”
We brought our daughter two days later. He stared at her like she was magic, stroking her hand, crying.
“God… You’re your nan’s double. So beautiful… Be happy, love.”
On the fourth day, he called me close.
“Forgive me, son… For not loving you. For breaking your mum. Forgive me.”
I gripped his hand. Tight. Silent. That was my *”I forgive you.”*
A week later, he was gone. I buried him myself—next to Mum. No one else came. But for the first time in years, my chest felt light.
I owed him nothing. But I did what was right. That’s all that matters.
