June 12th
The fridge door clicked shut as I wiped my hands on a rag.
“Right, that should do it. The freezer ought to work now, but let’s test it first. Have you got an empty tub? We’ll fill it with water and pop it inside. I’ll ring you tonight—if it’s frozen solid, we’re in the clear.”
Just then, my phone buzzed again. Another job, I figured, and answered.
“Hello, Smith’s Repairs. What’s the issue? Yes, I’m Edward Smith, if that matters. Sorry—what did you say? My *father*?” The voice on the other end made my stomach twist.
The man introduced himself—James Smith. My father, whom I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Memories crashed over me like a cold tide, blurred and painful, nearly worn away by time.
“What… do you want?” I faltered, unsure what to even call him. “A meeting? A chat? Right, because twenty years is nothing, isn’t it? Look, I’m on a job—I’ll ring you back.” I hung up and muttered under my breath, “Bloody hell.”
Turning up after all this time. No doubt he’s after something. Money, most likely. I’m grown now, he’s getting on—probably wants a free ride. Must be pushing sixty. Typical. I scoffed and got back to work.
“Sorted,” I told the homeowner. “Ring me tonight once you’ve checked the ice. If it’s frozen, you’re golden.”
She thanked me, and I headed to the next job—an elderly woman with a leaking washing machine. She was chatty, dragging me straight to the kitchen for tea and biscuits. The fix was simple: the door seal had worn out. I flipped it, and the leak stopped. The last bloke had quoted her a ripoff price, but I charged next to nothing—fleecing pensioners isn’t my style. She near teared up, going on about how rare honest tradesmen were these days. I gave an awkward smile, sipped my tea, and promised to swing by if anything else broke.
But my mind kept circling back to that call. Fragments of the past surfaced—my parents’ divorce when I was five, Dad losing his job, drinking. Mum swallowing her tears, believing his empty promises. One afternoon, he picked me up from school, dragged me to the park, cracked open a lager, and started moaning to *me*, a kid, about how Mum didn’t appreciate him. Drunk, he passed out on a bench. I tried shaking him awake, but he just batted me away. Humiliated, I walked home alone, getting lost until a neighbour found me.
Mum didn’t shout when she found out. Just said quietly, “Leave. You abandoned your own son. What kind of father does that?”
He moved to another city. Sent money or toys now and then. Mum would roll her eyes: “We’re better off without him, aren’t we, Eddie?”
Then, when I was ten, she brought home Uncle Robert.
“Love, Robert wants to marry me. He’ll take care of us. Fancy a new bike?”
Robert was decent enough—loved Mum—but he wasn’t my dad. Part of her belonged to him now, and I felt like an outsider in my own home.
That evening, I reluctantly dialled Dad’s number. He answered straight away.
“Edward, meet me tomorrow. Seven o’clock, by the fountain in Victoria Park. Can you make it?”
“Yeah, fine,” I grunted.
Mum once said Robert wanted to adopt me, give me his name. “We’re family now,” she’d insisted. But I refused. Staying Edward Smith mattered—a thread, however thin, tying me to Dad. She wanted to erase him, but I held on. For what, I didn’t know. Eventually, I realised there was nothing left to wait for.
Walking to the park the next evening, I’d already decided: if he asked for money, I’d help—once. Clean slate. Mum had Robert; she wouldn’t care.
“Guilt money,” she’d say, tossing another parcel from him aside.
At the fountain, I spotted an older man. He stood as I approached. *No sentimental rubbish*, I thought. *And please tell me he’s sober.*
“Evening, Edward,” he said, offering his hand.
I shook it, surprised by the firm grip.
“Listen,” he started, “I promised your mum I’d stay away while you were young. She hated me, and you were scared. I moved cities, drank myself stupid at first. Then, after a particularly bad bender, I wound up in hospital. The nurse who saved me became my wife. She had a daughter, Lily—raised her as my own. Started fixing cars, then appliances. Built a crew. But you’re grown now. I wanted to meet. You’re my only blood. I’d like to ask—”
I braced myself. *Here it comes. The ask.* But he didn’t look like a drunk—neatly dressed, clear-eyed. Same eyes as mine, same ears, even the way he shoved his hands in his pockets. Could’ve been a proper dad.
“Edward, I’ve got a repair business with a mate,” he continued. “Seems we’re cut from the same cloth. I’ve moved back to London, brought the family. Want to open a branch here, shift the main office. I’d like you as my partner. Maybe take over one day. Think on it, son. I know I’m a stranger. But I want to give you what I couldn’t before. A father’s support.”
I was floored. Not a request—an offer. A few days later, I said yes.
Bit by bit, I rediscovered him. The anger, the loneliness—it faded. Working together fitted us like missing puzzle pieces. Now Edward Smith isn’t just a lone tradesman. We run a proper firm. Pensioners still get discounts.
And I finally proposed to my girl, Emily. Two years together, but I’d hesitated. Now I knew—I was ready to be a husband, a father, the head of a family.
That night, Dad said, “I was a fool, lost, didn’t know how to live. I’m sorry, son. Time doesn’t excuse it. Nor does age. A man’s got to own his mistakes.”
I forgave him. So long as we’re breathing, there’s always a chance to make things right.