A Call From the Past: When Dad Came Back

“Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life, shutting people out?” Mom’s voice echoed from the hallway as I slammed the refrigerator door, my hands trembling. The kitchen still smelled faintly of burnt toast and lemon cleaner, but all I could focus on was the message blinking on the old landline. I wiped my palms on the dish towel, trying to steady my breath.

I hadn’t heard from my dad in over fifteen years. Not since he left us one muggy July morning when I was twelve, the screen door banging behind him, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. I always told myself I didn’t care. That I was better off without him. But as the phone rang again, slicing through the silence of our small Ohio house, my heart hammered like it was about to leap out of my chest.

“Are you going to answer that?” Mom asked, looking at me over the rim of her coffee cup. Her hair was grayer now, and the lines around her eyes deeper—lines I’d helped carve with years of slammed doors and cold shoulders. I shook my head. “It’s probably just another spam call.”

She sighed, setting her mug down with a soft clink. “You never know.”

But I did know. Deep down, I knew. I felt it in my bones, in the way the air in the house had shifted, electric and uneasy. I let the call go to voicemail, but couldn’t resist playing the message five minutes later, crouched in the laundry room where no one could see me.

“Hey, buddy. It’s—uh, it’s Dad. John. I—um—I’d like to talk. I’m in town for a bit. If you think you’d want to see me, call me back. I’ll be at the Red Roof Inn off Main. Room 204.”

His voice was older, raspier. There was a long pause at the end, like he was waiting for me to answer. I pressed my forehead against the cold washing machine, the world spinning.

For the rest of the day, I couldn’t concentrate. I fixed the fridge’s ice maker for Mrs. Hawkins down the street, but kept snapping at her dog and fumbled my tools. “You alright, honey?” she asked, her brow furrowed. I almost told her. Almost said, “My dad just called after fifteen years of nothing, and I don’t know if I want to scream at him or just hang up again.”

Instead, I said, “I’m fine. Just tired.”

At dinner, Mom set down my plate a little too hard. “Any news from school?” she asked, but I caught her glancing at the phone. I knew she was hoping I’d bring it up.

Finally, I snapped, “He called, okay? Dad called.”

She stilled. “Are you going to see him?”

“I don’t know. Should I?”

She hesitated, twisting her napkin in her lap. “That’s up to you. But you deserve answers.”

That night, I lay awake listening to the cicadas, replaying the last time I saw him. He hugged me awkwardly, kissed the top of my head, and promised he’d call. But he never did. I remembered Mom crying in the kitchen, bills piling up on the counter, the looks from neighbors at church. I remembered learning to fix things around the house, mow the lawn, scrape together enough money for prom by working two part-time jobs. I remembered hating him.

But I also remembered how he used to make pancakes on Saturdays, how he taught me to ride a bike, how he’d tuck me in and tell me that, no matter what, I’d always be his kid.

The next morning, I called the number. It rang three times before he picked up.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Chris.”

There was a stunned silence, then a shaky breath. “Chris. Thank you for calling.”

I almost hung up. “What do you want?”

He was quiet. “I just want to see you. Talk. Explain.”

I agreed to meet him at a diner near the motel. My stomach churned as I walked in, scanning the booths until I saw him in the corner, nervously folding and unfolding a napkin. He looked smaller than I remembered. Older. Sadder.

He stood up, uncertainty written all over his face. “Hey, kid.”

I bristled at the word, my jaw tight. “Why now?”

He nodded, like he expected the question. “I got sick last year. Cancer. I’m in remission now, but… I realized how much I messed up. I can’t fix what happened. But I can try to be honest.”

I stared at him. “You just left. You didn’t even say goodbye to Mom.”

He winced. “I was scared. I lost my job, I couldn’t provide. I started drinking. I was a coward, Chris.”

I clenched my fists. “And you think a coffee and an apology is going to fix everything?”

He shook his head. “No. I just want a chance to know you again. If you’ll let me.”

I wanted to scream at him, throw my coffee in his face. Instead, I found myself asking, “Were you ever coming back?”

He swallowed. “I always wanted to. But the longer I stayed away, the harder it got.”

We sat in silence for a while. Our waitress, a tired woman with a kind smile, refilled our cups and pretended not to notice the tension.

He pushed an envelope across the table. “These are letters. I wrote you every birthday, every Christmas. I never sent them. I didn’t think I deserved to.”

I took the envelope, my hands shaking. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Whatever you want,” he said quietly. “Burn them, read them, throw them away. I just wanted you to have them.”

As I left, he called after me. “I love you, Chris. I always have.”

I didn’t turn around. I drove home, the envelope heavy in my lap. Mom was waiting, standing on the porch. She didn’t ask what happened. She just hugged me, holding on a little too tight.

Later, alone in my room, I opened the envelope and read the first letter. My father’s handwriting was shaky, full of regret and hope. I cried for the boy I used to be, for the father I lost, for the man sitting alone in a motel room with nothing but his mistakes.

I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him. I don’t know if things will ever be normal. But maybe, just maybe, I can let go of some of the anger. Maybe I can let myself heal.

How do you forgive someone who broke your heart and left you to pick up the pieces? Do we owe our parents a second chance, or is it okay to walk away for good? I wish I knew the answer.