**Diary Entry**
Twelve years. That’s how long it’s been since I last spoke to my father. And then, just like that, he sent a postcard with a single word.
Twelve years ago, I was twenty-two. Fresh out of law school. One word changed everything. *Sorry.* A magic word, like a key to a locked door. Forgiveness grants a second chance. Love gives you the strength to take it.
The paint under my nails wouldn’t wash off. I scrubbed my hands raw, as if trying to erase the past. Useless. The water was freezing—burning cold, just like that day all those years ago.
The postman delivered the postcard in the morning. It sat on the table like a time bomb. I was afraid to touch it. My father’s handwriting—familiar, precise, as if inking a verdict. On the back, just one word: *Sorry.* Nothing more.
Twelve years ago. Twenty-two, just qualified. My father sat in his study, flipping through papers. He looked up when I entered.
“Oliver Sinclair is expecting you tomorrow,” he said. “Nine sharp.”
Oliver Sinclair—his partner, a well-known solicitor.
“Dad, we need to talk.”
He set the papers down. Eyed me carefully. His frown deepened, as if sensing what was coming.
“Go on.”
“I’m not going to Oliver Sinclair’s.”
Silence. Thick, suffocating.
“I don’t understand,” he said slowly.
“I don’t want to be a solicitor.”
The words hung heavy in the air, like stones.
He stood, walked to the window, his back to me.
“What *do* you want to be?”
“An artist.”
He turned. First, surprise. Then anger.
“An artist?” he repeated. “You’re joking.”
“No. I’m serious.”
I remember every word of that argument. Every inflection.
“Five years studying law,” he muttered. “Five *years*!”
“I did it for you,” I said. “Not for me.”
“For the family! For your future!”
He paced, hands behind his back, face flushed as if he’d been running.
“Artists starve,” he muttered. “Die in squalor.”
“Not all.”
“Most. And you’re no exception.”
I pulled a folder from my bag—my sketches.
“Look,” I said.
He took it. Flipped through slowly. His face gave nothing away. I waited. Hoped. Maybe he’d understand. Feel it.
“A hobby,” he finally said. “A decent hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby. It’s my life.”
He closed the folder. Set it down like rubbish.
“Your life is the law,” he said firmly. “The rest is nonsense.”
I stared at the postcard now, turning it over. Thick, quality cardstock. The front—a print of Van Gogh’s *Starry Night*.
Irony? Or acknowledgment? Had he chosen it deliberately, knowing what it meant to me? Or just chance?
I placed the postcard on the shelf. Next to it, a photo—me and Dad fishing. I was ten. He was younger, happier. Before disappointment hardened him.
When did it break? After Mum died. I was fourteen. He shut down. Buried himself in work. Became rigid, controlling what he couldn’t bear to lose.
“Mum would’ve understood,” I’d said then. “She loved art.”
A mistake. A terrible one.
He paled. Clenched his fists.
“Don’t!” he shouted. “Don’t you *dare* bring her into this!”
“But it’s true!”
“The truth is you’re selfish! Only thinking of yourself!”
That argument lasted hours. Shouting. Accusations. Words like knives.
“You’re a disappointment,” he said.
“You’re a tyrant,” I shot back.
He threw the door open.
“Get out,” he said quietly. “And don’t come back.”
“Dad—”
“*Go!*”
I packed my things. My hands shook. My chest hollow, as if my heart had been ripped out.
He stood in the hall, staring at the wall. Didn’t even watch me leave.
“Dad,” I tried one last time.
Silence. Just silence. Like a statue.
I walked out. The door slammed behind me. For good.
Twelve years. No contact.
Now, I picked up my phone. Dialed his number. My finger hovered over the call button. What do you say after twelve years? *Hello?*
I set the phone down. Walked to the easel. Pulled off the cloth.
The portrait was nearly finished. My father’s face, remembered in fragments. I’d worked on it for a year. Stern, but his eyes—sad. Lonely, like a lost boy.
That’s how I remembered him. Not cruel. Not harsh. Just lost.
I picked up a brush. Added shadow under his eyes. The wrinkles time had carved.
What did he look like now? Grey, probably. Maybe a little stooped. Sixty-eight. An age for looking back. Regretting.
That evening, I told Emily. My wife sat painting her nails, focused as a surgeon.
“A postcard came,” I said.
“From who?” she asked, not looking up.
“My dad.”
She froze. The brush hovered mid-air.
“What did it say?”
“*Sorry.*”
She looked at me then. Warm sorrow in her eyes.
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
She set the polish down. Came over. Held me. Silent. A shield against the hurt.
“He’s getting old,” she said softly. “Starting to see what he did.”
“Too late.”
“Never too late. If there’s love.”
I rested my head on her shoulder. Familiar. Safe.
“And if there isn’t any left?”
“There is. Why else would he write?”
That night, I didn’t sleep. Lay in the dark, thinking. My father wasn’t a villain. Just a man afraid. Lost his wife, feared losing me. Tried to control me because he couldn’t control his own helplessness. Futile, but human.
And I wasn’t blameless. I was sharp. Stubborn. Never tried to understand him.
We both paid for it. Twelve years—like scattered pearls. Priceless.
In the morning, I got up early. Dressed. Took the portrait.
“Where are you going?” Emily asked sleepily.
“To see my dad.”
She nodded. As if she’d expected it.
“Good luck,” she whispered, kissing my cheek.
The house hadn’t changed. Same fence, same windows. But smaller somehow, hunched with loneliness.
I stood at the gate. My heart pounded like a schoolboy’s before an exam. Palms sweaty.
I rang the bell. The chime—familiar from childhood.
Footsteps in the hall. Slow. Careful.
The door opened. My father. Older. Greyer. But the same eyes.
He stared at me like a ghost. Disbelieving.
“James?” he whispered.
“Hi, Dad.”
We stood in silence. Just looking. Time froze.
“Come in,” he said finally. His voice trembled.
I stepped inside. The air still smelled of Mum’s perfume. Nothing had changed.
My childhood drawings hung in the hall. Awkward, but cherished.
“You kept them?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “They’re yours.”
We sat at the table. He made tea. His hands shook as he poured.
“Sorry,” he murmured, not meeting my eyes.
“Me too.”
He looked up then. His eyes wet.
“I was a fool,” he admitted. “A stubborn old fool.”
“We both were.”
I showed him the portrait.
“This is you.”
He studied it. Silent. Ran a finger along the edge.
“Does it look like me?” I asked.
“Too much,” he said softly.
He stood, went to the cupboard. Pulled out a folder. *That* folder.
“I kept it,” he said. “All these years.”
He opened it. My sketches, preserved like treasures.
“Recently, I realized,” he added. “You were right. Your mother would’ve supported you.”
The ice inside me—twelve years thick—melted.
“Forgive me, son,” he said again.
“I already have, Dad.”
We spent the whole day together. Talking. Remembering. Filling the gaps.
He told me about work, retirement, how he’d missed me.
I told him about my paintings, exhibitions, Emily.
“Will you bring her to meet me?” he asked.
“Of course. She wants to.”
That evening, as I left, he walked me to the gate.
“Come again,” he said. “Please.”
“I will. I promise.”
We hugged. Tight. Long. As if making up
