*”What are you to me now?”* — after thirty years, my father walked back into my life… only to end up in a hospital bed.
Edward pulled into the car park of his block of flats in the sleepy London suburb of Croydon, parked his car, and heaved two heavy grocery bags from the boot. As he approached the entrance, finger poised to tap the keycode, a voice called out.
— Eddie? That you?!
He turned. A dishevelled old man sat on the bench—unkempt, wearing a tattered coat, his beard grey and tangled, eyes dull. Homeless, by the look of it. Edward frowned.
— Sorry—do I know you?
— Eddie… it’s me. Victor. Your father. Don’t you recognise me?
Edward recoiled as if struck. *Father.* The one who’d walked out on him and his mother nearly three decades ago, when he was just a boy of nine. And now here he sat, as if no time had passed at all.
— I got your address from Lydia, your mum’s old friend… She told me Helen had passed. I didn’t know. Christ, all that suffering, and I was nowhere…
— *Where were you?!* Edward cut in, voice tight with fury. — Where were you when Mum cried herself to sleep? When I had to make her tea because you’d gone off ‘for a drink’ again? When you raised your hand to her—to *me*?! Forgotten? I *haven’t.*
— Son, why dredge up the past? With Kathy, it wasn’t easy either. At first, it was all laughs—drinking, celebrating her ‘freedom’ when I left. But then… everything changed. The money, the shouting. We never had kids. And in the end, her daughter kicked me out. That was that. Now I’m nobody. But remember when I took you to the park? Bought you that lemonade…?
— Are you *serious?!* One bloody lemonade and you think that makes up for it? You forgot the last of Mum’s savings you stole on your way out? That you spat in her face when you left for your ‘*better life*’? *Forgotten?!* I *haven’t!*
Edward spun on his heel and stormed into the building, leaving his father on the bench. Inside, his hands shook with rage. His wife, Claire, met him at the door.
— What’s wrong? You look—
— *My father.* He’s here. Sat outside like some beggar, saying he’s got no one left, begging for help. Thirty years of silence, and *now* he remembers he’s got a son?!
— Maybe you could at least hear him out…?
— He’s *nothing* to me! Not a shred of sympathy!
Claire fell silent. Edward retreated to the bedroom but couldn’t sleep. Memories flooded back—his mother’s tears, the night his father dragged a suitcase out and slammed the door behind him.
Three days later, his father was waiting again. Hunched, hopeful.
— Son… I understand. But you’ve made something of yourself. Couldn’t spare me a corner, even a meal…?
— Where were *you* when I needed school shoes?! Where were *you* when Mum was ill?! No one helped *me.* I owe you *nothing.* *Piss off.*
The old man looked down, saying no more.
The next morning, a knock. A young nurse stood there, medical badge gleaming.
— Mr. Edwards? Your father’s in hospital. Beaten up—got into a scuffle on the street. He said to find you. You’re all he’s got…
— And? I’m *not* his family. He’s *nothing* to me.
— But… he said he had a son he loved. I’m sorry.
As she turned to leave:
— St. Thomas’ Hospital. Ward 3.
Claire had overheard.
— Ed… Maybe we should go? Just see how he is…
An hour later, they arrived—food, clean clothes in hand. The doctor met them, grave.
— It’s bad. His liver’s gone. Years of drink. Not long now.
In the ward, his father’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of Edward.
— You came… Knew you would. Is this Claire? My daughter-in-law… Any grandchildren? Just to see one, once…
Two days later, they brought their daughter. The old man gazed at her as if she were a miracle. Touched her hand, weeping.
— Christ… You look just like your nan. So beautiful… Be happy, love.
On the fourth day, he called for Edward.
— Forgive me, son… For all of it. For not loving you. For breaking your mum. *Forgive me.*
Edward gripped his hand. Tight. Wordless. It was the only way to say, *”I have.”*
A week later, his father was gone. Edward 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 quiet.
He owed nothing. But he had done what was right. *For his own peace.*
