Dad’s Gift: A Special Surprise from Father to Son

My mother was strikingly beautiful, though my father would say that was her sole advantage. I, who adored him with a heart that seemed to stop beating, watched everything through his eyes.

Father taught political science at the university. He came from an educated family that had never approved of my mother. I learned their story much later. In his youth, John had been part of a university workcamp sent to a collective farm in the Midlands to build animal pens. Margaret was seventeen then, working as a milkmaid. She had only eight years of schooling, and even after many years with John she could not read fluently; she traced letters with her fingers and whispered syllables to herself. Yet she was a marvel of a beautydelicate, with porcelain skin, honeygolden hair to her waist, deep blue eyes like cornflowers, and a finelychiseled profile. In the wedding photograph she looks as though she were lifted from a magazine. John was tall, darkhaired, sporting a full moustache, and very masculine. That summer Margaret conceived, and John felt obliged to marry her. Perhaps he had once loved her, but his parents pressed him, accusing Margaret of having tricked him. Around the university swirled young postgraduate womenperhaps not as pretty, but educated and bright, able to hold any conversation. Moreover, on the few occasions John tried to take Margaret to social gatherings, she ate clumsily, failed at using cutlery, and laughed so loudly that he was embarrassed. He never hesitated to tell her this, and she would simply shake her head with a sad smile, never daring to argue.

I swore never to be like my mother. I wanted father to be proud of me. Before I even started school I learned the alphabet and could read far better than Margaret. I spent whole days practising numbers so that, when John set me a problem, I could give the right answer and earn his praise. At the table I watched his manners and copied themeating with my mouth closed, not licking my plate, using fork and knife. Yet John never grew truly fond of me; his glance was fleeting, and he would tousle my soft hair with a distracted hand. On the rare days we spoke, his words became my solace, and I replayed them in my mind.

When I was in second grade, John left us. Mother tried to hide it, but eventually I learned he had taken another woman. When I heard the dreadful word divorce, I thought of only one thing: If only father would take me with him. Of course I stayed with mother. We had to move out of the flat that belonged to my grandparents; they were merely glad to be rid of us. For a while they sent modest sums to our addressJohn each month, and grandmother around Christmas and New Year. But our familys collapse coincided with the nations economic downturn, and soon John lost his job and the payments stopped. Mother took on several jobs as a cleaning lady, scrubbing floors from dawn till dusk. She was paid little, often late, and we lived in poverty. Her beauty faded with the years, and I could no longer see anything good in her. I blamed her, in my mind, for Johns abandonment.

John, meanwhile, turned to trade. One winter he visited us, bearing a new coat and a few pounds. That day has stayed with me forever. I had just returned from school, shivering in my threadbare overcoat whose sleeves were too short. John stood at the doorstepmother was at work and no one opened the door for him, yet he waited. My heart leaptfather had not forgotten me! I offered him tea with sugar and babbled endlessly about my school successes, trying to prove how clever I had become. He listened halfheartedly but did not leave, finishing his tea. He unfolded the coat, which I adored, placed a handful of money on the table and said:

Give this to mother. Ill bring more next month.

Will you come for my birthday? I asked timidly.

He looked at me as if the date had slipped his mind, then answered:

Of course! What would you like?

A doll, I blurted, feeling a flush of embarrassmentI was already a girl of age, but the word escaped me. I wanted that emblem of childhood from his hands. Usually he bought me books for my birthdays.

Very well, he nodded. A doll it shall be.

When mother returned, I proudly told her of fathers visit and of his promise to bring a doll for my birthday.

I must admit that on my birthday I raced home on every footstep, fearing father might not wait for me. I hoped to see him at the landing, but he was nowhere. The night before, mother had baked a cake, and in the morning she gave me a new jumper with fashionable patterns that I had longed for. I left the cake untouched, waiting for father, but he never came. In the evening, when mother came back from work, we ate the cake together, yet I felt no celebration; tears finally broke free. Mother understood, saying nothing about father.

The next morning mother handed me a small parcel.

Here, she said, the post was delayed; it should have arrived yesterday. Its from father.

I opened it to find a brandnew doll in a pretty pink box. I shouted with joy and asked:

Why didnt he come himself?

Probably he was sent on a commission, mother replied, averting her gaze.

That doll became my most treasured possession. I took it to school, unafraid of classmates mockery. Father never appeared again, and my grandparents never sent the usual monetary allowance. Gradually I accepted that only mother remained in my life, yet each day I yearned for father, doing everything in the hope that one day he would return, see what I had become, and be proud of me.

After finishing my Alevels I entered medical school. I was desperate to share the news with father, so I resolved to find him at any cost. I remembered roughly the address of the flat where I had lived for eight years and the house of my grandparents, which I visited only on holidays. Without telling mother, I set off.

At the flat a woman answered, telling me that no one by my name lived there and that she had been the tenant for seven years. I tried to inquire about previous occupants, but she slammed the door shut.

My grandparents house was silent. I was about to leave when the next door opened, and a thin, spectaclesclad old lady asked:

Can I help you?

Ive come to see the Serbys, I said, Im their granddaughter.

She examined me closely and said:

If youre their granddaughter, you should know theyve been in the grave for many years now.

I blushed.

I didnt know My parents divorced and I

Yes, yes. Divorced So youre Harriet?

Yes.

Wanted to see your grandparents?

I did. And alsofather, I exhaled.

She gave me a look that made everything clear at once.

All of themgone. Killed for debts. In one day. All because of your father

The truth crashed over me so violently I could barely breathe.

Dont kill yourself, she shrieked. Youre young, life lies ahead. Mothers still alive?

I nodded.

Listen. I have the locations of their graves written down. Ill give you the details; go and pay your respects, it will ease your heart.

She rummaged through drawers until she found a little notebook, dictated the plot numbers and the name of the cemetery. I thanked her and, before the fear could fully seize me, I set off.

The graves were overgrown, untended. I cleared the weeds as best I could to read the inscriptions. They lay in a single row behind one low wall. When I saw the dates of death, I realized they fell just two days after my last encounter with father.

On the tram ride home, trembling, a thought struck me: father could never have sent me that doll on my birthday. I had kept that doll all these years, treasured above every other gift mother ever gave me. Could it have been mothers after all? A flush rose to my cheeks, a lump lodged in my throat. Shame washed over me. My father turned out to be a common crook who had ruined his own parents. It was a mercy we never lived together; otherwise mother and I would have been left to rot beside him.

I never told mother about the visit. I fibbed that I had been out with friends. Later, I embraced her, whispered that I loved her dearly, and lied once more:

Thank you for everything.

Mothers eyes widened, and she lifted her gazenow a little dimmer with age, yet still the bright cornflower hue of her youth.

I always knew that doll was yours to begin with, she said softly. Thats why I cherished it.

Large tears streamed from her eyes. I felt no shame for my deception any longer. I felt only shame for the years I had believed there was nothing good in her, apart from a fleeting, fleeting beauty.