“Where did you get this photograph?” Edward paled as he stared at the image of his long-lost father.
When Edward returned home from work, his mother was tending to the flowers on their terrace. Bent over the hanging pots, she carefully adjusted the leaves, her face lit with quiet contentment.
“Mum, you’re like a busy bee,” Edward said, hanging his coat before stepping closer to embrace her shoulders. “On your feet all day again?”
“This isn’t work, love,” she waved him off with a smile. “It’s good for the soul. Look how everything’s blooming. The scent’s so strong—like a proper garden, not just a terrace.”
She laughed softly, the way she always did. Edward inhaled the delicate fragrance and remembered their old days in the cramped flat where their “garden” had been a single potted kalanchoe on the windowsill, always shedding its leaves.
So much had changed since then.
Now his mother spent most of her time in the cottage he’d bought for her anniversary—a modest home but with a sprawling garden where she could grow whatever she pleased. In spring, she nurtured seedlings; in summer, she tended the greenhouse; in autumn, she preserved what she’d grown. And in winter, she waited for spring to return.
But Edward knew that behind every smile, there lingered a quiet sorrow in her eyes—one that would never fade until her deepest wish was fulfilled: to see the man she’d waited for all her life.
His father. He’d left for work one distant morning and never returned. Edward had been five. His mother told him how his father had kissed her temple as usual, winked at his son, said, “Be good,” and walked out, unaware it was the last time.
There’d been police reports, searches. Relatives, neighbours, friends—all whispered theories: “Maybe he ran off,” “What if there’s another family?” “Or something happened to him.” But his mother always said one thing:
“He wouldn’t have just left. That means he couldn’t come back.”
Edward carried that conviction even now, thirty years later. He was certain: his father wouldn’t have abandoned them. He couldn’t have.
After school, Edward studied engineering, though he’d secretly dreamed of journalism. But he’d needed to stand on his own feet quickly. His mother worked nights as a hospital orderly, never complaining. Even when exhaustion weighed heavy, she’d say,
“It’s all right, my love. Things will sort themselves. Just focus on your studies.”
And he had. At night, he’d scour missing persons databases, tracing old leads, posting on forums. Hope hadn’t faded—rather, it had hardened into part of his nature. He’d grown strong, knowing that in his father’s absence, he had to be his mother’s rock.
When he landed his first proper job, he cleared her debts, opened a savings account, and bought her that cottage, saying,
“That’s it, Mum. Now you rest.”
She’d wept openly then. He’d hugged her tight and whispered,
“You deserved this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.”
Now Edward dreamed of his own family—of a home smelling of roast dinners and fresh bread, of Sunday gatherings filled with laughter. But for now, he worked hard, saving to start his own business. He’d always been practical, good with his hands.
Yet one dream still burned inside him: finding his father. He wanted the man to walk through their door one day and say,
“Forgive me. I couldn’t come back sooner.”
And they’d understand, forgive, embrace as three. And at last, everything would feel real—the way it should’ve been.
Sometimes, Edward still caught himself remembering his father’s voice, the way he’d scoop him up and say, “Up we go, my champ!” before tossing him into the air and catching him tight.
That night, he dreamed of his father again. This time, the man stood by a riverbank in an old overcoat, calling out. His face was blurred, but his eyes—grey, deep, familiar—were unmistakable.
Edward’s job was steady, but as they say, wages alone won’t get you far when building a future. So evenings were spent fixing computers—setting up networks, troubleshooting printers, updating software. Older clients adored him—patient, polite, never pushy.
That day, a referral came through: a wealthy family in a gated estate needed their home network configured.
“Come after six. The lady of the house will see you in,” he was told.
Edward arrived on time, passing through the security checkpoint before stopping at a grand house with white pillars and floor-to-ceiling windows. A young woman, mid-twenties, opened the door—slender, elegant in a flowing dress.
“You’re the technician? This way, please. Father’s study has all the equipment. He’s away but wanted this sorted tonight,” she said with a gentle smile.
He followed her down a long hallway, the air thick with expensive perfume. The house was immaculate—a grand piano in the parlour, oil paintings, shelves of leather-bound books, framed photographs. The study was all dark wood and green lamp light, a sleek monitor atop a wide desk.
Edward set to work, but his gaze snagged on a photo—a young couple. The woman in white with flowers in her hair, the man in a grey suit, smiling. Time had altered his features, but the voice in Edward’s head was firm: *That’s him.*
He stood, stepping closer. Those grey eyes, the same jawline, the same dimple when he smiled.
“Excuse me… who’s in this photo?” Edward asked hesitantly.
The woman blinked. “That’s my father. Do you know him?”
Edward didn’t know how to answer. His pulse roared in his ears. Finally, he managed,
“I… think I might. Could you… tell me how your parents met? I know it’s odd, but it’s important.”
She hesitated but replied, “Father’s had quite the life. He was just an engineer when they met—on holiday, actually. Fell in love straightaway…” She studied him. “Are you all right? You’ve gone pale. Should I fetch water?”
Edward nodded. As she hurried out, he did something he knew was wrong—he opened the computer’s file explorer.
A folder labelled *Personal*—password-protected. He entered his birthdate on a whim. It worked.
Inside: old photos, scanned documents… and an unnamed text file. He clicked it.
The words began abruptly, like a letter never sent:
*I knew it was wrong from the start. You were beautiful, clever, wealthy—and in love. I was nobody. Just starting out, and it felt like life had handed me a chance. Yes, I lied—said I was single, unattached. I thought it would be a fleeting affair. Never imagined it would go this far. But then you introduced me to your parents as your future husband, planned the wedding… I didn’t know how to escape. Wanted to leave, but I was trapped—by your trust, your father’s money. They offered me everything but freedom. I surrendered. Friends arranged new papers—a clean passport, no marriage record. I’m not proud. But back then, I told myself it was easier for everyone. That Lydia would move on, that my boy was too young to remember. Now… I don’t recognise myself. I live in luxury but drink my coffee each morning knowing I’m a traitor. And there’s no way back…*
Edward sat back, staring blankly. He didn’t know what to feel. Anger? Disgust? Pity?
Here was betrayal spanning decades. His mother—scrimping, saving, never remarrying, never letting herself live without him—while he’d lived in “luxury,” as he’d written. Forgotten, rewritten his life.
Edward finished quickly, accepted an envelope of cash, and left. He barely remembered driving home.
For days, he delayed telling his mother. But as ever, she sensed it.
“Something’s wrong, love. You’ve been distant.”
So he told her—the house, the photo, the file. The story he’d read.
She listened silently, only once shutting her eyes, knuckles whitening.
When he finished, the room was quiet. Then she rose, walked to the window, and stared out a long while before saying softly,
“You know… I feel lighter.”
Edward frowned. “Lighter?”
“Yes. All these years, I’ve lived with the *why*. ‘What if he’s in trouble?’ ‘What if he’s suffering?’ Every day, the same questions. Now I know—he’s not in trouble. He just… chose a different life.”
She sat at the table, elbows resting on the wood. No anger, no tears—just weariness, like after a long journey.
“I don’t have to wait anymore, love. No more fearing I missed something, no more guessing. I’m free.”
“I’m sorry I… found out like this,” he murmured.
She shook her head. “Don’t apologise. Everything happens for a”But as the years passed, Edward often found himself staring at that same riverbank in his dreams, wondering if his father ever looked back too.”
