**Echoes of a Forgotten Past: A Father’s Return**
James shut the fridge door, wiping his hands on a rag.
“That should do it,” he told the homeowner. “It’ll freeze now, but we’ll need to check. Got an empty plastic container? We’ll fill it with water and pop it in the freezer. I’ll ring you later—if it’s frozen, you’re sorted.”
Just then, his phone rang again. Another customer, he assumed, and answered.
“Hello, appliance repairs. What’s the issue? Yeah, I’m James Wilson—if that matters. Sorry, what did you say? *Father?*” The voice on the other end froze him in place.
The man introduced himself—Nicholas Wilson. It took James a moment to process: this was his father, whom he hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Memories crashed over him like a cold tide—fragmented, painful, nearly faded with time.
“What… do you want?” James hesitated, unsure how to address the man. “To meet? Talk? Right, of course—only twenty years too late. Look, I’m on a job. I’ll call back.” He hung up, muttering bitterly, “Well, that’s a turn-up.”
Showing up after all these years. Probably after something. What else? A grown son, an ageing father—figured he’d latch on. How old was he now? Past fifty, surely. After money, he reckoned. James smirked and got back to work.
“All settled?” he told the homeowner. “Ring me later—check the water. If it’s ice, your freezer’s fine.”
She thanked him, and James headed to his next call—an elderly woman with a leaking washing machine. The old dear was chatty, insisting he stay for tea and biscuits. The fix was simple: the rubber seal on the door had worn thin. He flipped it, and the leak stopped. The last bloke had quoted her a fortune, so James took next to nothing. Ripping off pensioners wasn’t his style. She nearly wept with gratitude, saying she hadn’t met someone so decent in years. James smiled awkwardly, sipped his tea, and promised to return if anything else broke.
But his mind was stuck on that call. Flashes of the past resurfaced—his parents splitting when he was five, his dad drinking, losing his job. His mum swallowing tears, believing empty promises. One afternoon, his father had picked him up from nursery, dragged him to a park bench, and started rambling about how his wife didn’t appreciate him, life was unfair, before passing out drunk. James had tried shaking him awake, but the man just swatted him away. Humiliated, he’d walked home alone, lost, until a neighbour found him.
His mother hadn’t shouted that night. Just said quietly, *”Leave. You abandoned our boy. What kind of father does that?”*
His dad vanished to another city. Occasionally sent money, toys. His mother would scoff: *”We’re better off without him, eh, Jamie?”*
When he turned ten, she introduced him to “Uncle David.” *”Love, David wants to marry me. He’ll take care of us. Fancy a new bike?”*
David wasn’t a bad sort—loved his mum, but never quite a father. A piece of her heart belonged to him now, and James felt like an outsider.
That evening, he reluctantly dialled his father back. The man answered instantly.
“James, meet me. Tomorrow, seven PM. Our old park, by the fountain.”
“Fine. I’ll be there,” James grunted.
His mum had once mentioned David wanted to adopt him, give him his name. *”We’re family now.”* But James refused. Staying *James Wilson* mattered—that fragile link to his father. His mum wanted to erase the past, but he’d held on. For what, he didn’t know. Until he realised there was nothing left to wait for.
The next evening, he walked to the park, already decided: if his dad asked for money, he’d help, then cut ties. The man had sent parcels over the years—he’d repay the debt and be done. His mum had David; she wouldn’t care. *”Guilt, that’s all it is,”* she’d say, unpacking another box.
By the fountain, James spotted an elderly man rising from a bench. *No sappy “son, at last” nonsense,* he thought. And god forbid the man still drank.
“Evening, James,” his father said, offering a hand.
“Evening.” James shook it, noting the firm grip.
“Let’s be clear,” his father started. “I promised your mother I’d stay away till you were grown. She despised me, and you feared me. I left town, struggled, drank myself stupid. Then, after one too many benders, I landed in hospital. The nurse who patched me up became my wife. She had a daughter, Emily—I raised her as my own. Started fixing cars, appliances, anything. Built a team. But you’re a man now. I wanted to talk. You’re my only blood. I’d like to ask…”
James braced himself. Here it comes—the ask for cash. But his father didn’t look like a drunk. Neatly dressed, clear-eyed. Same eyes as James, same ears, even the way he shoved hands in pockets—spitting image. Could’ve been a proper dad.
“James, my mate and I run a repair firm,” he continued. “Seems we’re cut from the same cloth. I’ve moved back to Riverton, brought my family. Planning to expand here. I want you as my partner—maybe take over one day. Think on it, son. I know I’m a stranger. But I’d like to give you what I couldn’t before. A father’s support.”
James was floored. This wasn’t the ask he’d expected. No handouts—a real offer. Days later, he agreed.
Bit by bit, James relearnt his father. Resentment dissolved. Working together fitted them like missing puzzle pieces. Now, James Wilson doesn’t do house calls alone. They run a thriving repair business, and he still gives discounts to the elderly.
He also proposed to his girlfriend, Alice. Two years together, but he’d hesitated. Now he knew—he was ready to be a husband, a father, a family man.
That night, his dad said, *”I was a fool, lost, didn’t know how to live. Forgive me, son. Time’s no excuse. Nor’s age. A man’s got to step up.”*
James forgave him. So long as they breathed, there was time to mend things.
