“Where did you get that photograph?”
James felt the colour drain from his face as he stared at the image of his father, a man who had been missing for over thirty years.
When James returned home from work that evening, his mother was watering the flowers on the balcony. She was leaning over the hanging baskets, gently stroking the leaves, and her face wore a quiet, peaceful expression.
“Mum, you’re like a busy bee,” James said, laying aside his jacket and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “Have you been on your feet all day?”
“Oh, this isn’t work,” she said with a smile, waving a hand. “It rests the soul. Look how everything blooms. The scent—it’s as if we’re not on a balcony at all, but at Kew Gardens.”
She laughed softly, warmly, as she always did. James breathed in the delicate perfume of the flowers and could not help remembering the days when they had lived in a shared flat, with a single pot of a wilting kalanchoe on the windowsill.
Much had changed since then.
His mother now spent most of her time in the little summerhouse he had bought her as an anniversary present. It was a modest building, but it came with a huge garden, where she could grow whatever she pleased. In spring she raised seedlings; in summer she worked in the greenhouses; in autumn she put up the harvest in preserving jars. And in winter she waited for spring to come round again.
But James knew that however brightly she smiled, there was always a quiet sorrow in her eyes. It was a sadness that would not leave until her dearest wish came true—to see again the man she had waited for all her life.
His father. He had gone off to work one morning and never come home. James had been five at the time. His mother said that on that day his father had kissed her on the temple as usual, waved to his son, and said, “Be good.” Then he had walked away, not knowing it would be forever.
There were reports to the police, months of searching. Relatives, neighbours and acquaintances all whispered: “Perhaps he ran off,” “Perhaps he had another family,” “Or perhaps something terrible happened.” Only his mother kept repeating the same thing:
“He wouldn’t simply go. He cannot come back.”
That thought had troubled James more than thirty years later. He was certain: his father would never have abandoned them. Never.
After school, James studied engineering, though secretly he dreamt of journalism. But he knew he had to stand on his own two feet quickly. His mother worked as a nurse at the hospital, took night shifts, and never complained. Even when her feet burned with tiredness and her eyes were red, she only said:
“It’s all right, my boy. It will be fine. Focus on your studies.”
So he did. But at night he searched online missing-person databases, pored over old records, and wrote in forums. His hope did not die—it grew, becoming part of him. He became stubborn. He grew up knowing he had to be there for his mother in his father’s place.
When he landed his first well-paid job, he paid off all the debts, opened a savings account, and finally bought the summerhouse. Then he said:
“Now, Mum, you can rest.”
She cried that day, without hiding her tears. He simply held her and whispered:
“You deserve this a thousand times over. Thank you for everything.”
James himself now dreamt of having a family. Of a home that smelled of fresh bread and stew. Where on Sundays the people he loved would gather, and children’s laughter would echo through the rooms. But until then, he kept working. Saving, building up enough money to one day start his own business. He had clever hands and had always enjoyed making things.
Yet deep in his heart burned one single wish: to find his father. He wanted that man to walk back into their lives and say:
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t come back sooner.”
And they would understand, forgive him, and the three of them would fall into each other’s arms. Then at last everything would be the way it should have been all along.
Sometimes, when James thought of his father, he could still hear his voice. He could feel himself lifted into the air and hear the words: “Well, my little hero, shall we fly?”—before his father caught him again with a laugh.
That night James dreamt of him again. In the dream, his father stood by a riverbank in an old coat, calling to him. His face was blurred, as if seen through mist—but his eyes, grey, deep and familiar, were the same.
James had a steady job, but as he often said, “You don’t get rich from a salary alone,” especially when you had plans of your own. So in the evenings he took on extra work, repairing computers and fitting smart-home systems. He could do two, sometimes three jobs in a single evening: a printer issue here, an internet outage there, software updates—he knew it all. Older clients especially liked him: polite, patient, never pushy. He explained everything clearly and never pressed them into unnecessary services.
One day a job came through an acquaintance: a wealthy family—a gated estate on the edge of the city, security guards, entry only with a pass. They needed someone to set up their home network.
“Come after six, please. The lady of the house will be there to show you around.”
James arrived on time. After the check at the gate, he stopped outside a grand house with white pillars and panoramic windows. The door was opened by a young woman, around twenty-five, slim and delicate, in an elegant dress.
“Are you the technician? Do come in. The equipment is in my father’s study. He’s away on business, but he wanted everything finished today,” she said with a gentle smile.
James followed her down a long hallway. The air smelled of expensive perfume, and everything seemed sterile, almost clinical. In the sitting room stood a grand piano; the walls were hung with paintings, bookcases and framed photographs. The study was practical: dark wood, a green banker’s lamp, a large monitor and a leather swivel chair.
James nodded, unpacked his tools, and began. Everything went normally—until his eye caught a photograph on the wall. A young couple. A woman in a white dress, blossoms in her hair. Beside her, a man in a grey suit, smiling. Time had marked his features, but inwardly James heard a voice, clear and loud: *That is him. Father.*
He stood, stepped closer, and stared. Grey eyes, the same cheekbones, the same dimple when he smiled. Unmistakable.
“Excuse me… who is that in the photograph?” he asked hesitantly.
The young woman looked at him surprised.
“My father. Do you know him?”
James did not know what to say. He stared at the picture as if he had seen a ghost. His heart thumped so wildly that she must surely have heard it. At last he managed:
“I think… perhaps. Could you…”
He only nodded, turned around, and left the house forever, carrying the knowledge that some pasts are better left undisturbed.
