The front door of this quaint house with a pretty garden front and back and a view from the bedroom of the Bristol Channel, suddenly pushes open. The door seems reluctant, like it is fighting against some fantastic wind, like Storm Hector has got back on his feet and come back for some more. But Hector loses the fight, and the front door pushes open.
We stand just feet apart from each other, the first time in years. I suddenly feel tall. A giant. Our roles have reversed. He can't quite see me. He knows I am there. He shelters his eyes from the sun with the back of his hand, lowers his head and then his glasses slide down his nose, allowing him to look over the top of them. He squints. The process takes time - time I wish would just vanish. It makes everything even more awkward than it already is, and I find myself glancing around at the garden, marvelling at how green and luscious the lawn looks, how vibrant the red roses are.
"Son."
I'm not sure how to react. It is almost like a question. He knows it is me, of course he does; he just can't quite believe it. I don't know if he is happy or if he is angry. He has a right to be both, and more. I don't want there to be this distance between us, even if now it is only a few yards. The crinkles in the face suggest pain. That is the last thing I want. Maybe I should just turn around and jump on the first train back to Paddington? I detest the idea of putting him through any more pain. But I stand still, like a wax model, lifelike but unable to move, to function.
"Son," he repeats. You could slot pennies in the dimples in his cheeks. He opens out his arms. His bones feel delicate and brittle. He smells of soap and powder. Yet his grip, as he clings to my body, is amazingly strong.
Eventually, he pulls away. He looks up at me, takes me all in. "I cannot believe it," he says. "This truly is a wonderful day. I got out of bed this morning and something felt different. I had no idea what it was, because I wasn't planning to do anything different from normal. I was going to walk down to the shop to get the paper, stop off and read the paper in the cafe. I couldn't work out why today was so special, but it just felt different. In a good way."
"Well, now you know why, Dad."
He hurriedly tells me to stop standing on the doorstep like some sort of intruder, that it is just as much my home as it is his. I don't quite understand his eagerness to get me inside, for he has been stood outside with open eyes and hands, repeatedly expressing his amazement and disbelief that I am here.
I step inside and it does feel like my home, much more than the boat parked up in London, even though I haven't lived here for nearly thirty years, even though I haven't stepped foot in the house for all of that time.
I recall when I last walked out of the house. It was Saturday morning. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen, eating their breakfast and drinking their tea and browsing the newspapers. I know this because I stood outside the door, listening in. I heard the occasional rustling of paper, the tapping of spoons against bowls, even gentle slurping from cups. They didn't speak, but that was normal. They didn't need to. I literally stood on the tips of my toes as I silently opened and then closed the door. I didn't say goodbye. I repeat; I didn't say goodbye to the two people who had delivered me into the world and brought me up, even though I was disappearing from their lives forever. I couldn't. They wouldn't have let me go. Physically, my dad was the stronger of the two, but I know my mum would have put up the bigger fight.
My dad is first through the door and - naturally - he does not understand the significance of me closing the door behind me. It is the same door. Blue, plain, sturdy and wooden. So much has changed, but that door has remained exactly the same.
The delicious scent of fresh flowers is still here, too. Mum always ensured fragrant flowers filled a vase in the kitchen; my dad had continued the tradition. The house is fresh and airy, the sun blares through the open curtains. It feels slightly cranky and delicate in places, just like Dad, but really it is in amazing condition all things considered, just like Dad.
"Cup of tea?"
"That will be nice," I reply. "And thanks, Dad."
He turns around and then, without warning, he gives me another hug. His face is wet. He is blubbering. "I started to doubt that this day would come, son. And you know me, I have always had faith."
"I know, Dad," I say. "I truly am sorry."
"It's not your fault," he says. Surely, though, we both must know that it really is?
We've maintained regular contact on the phone. At first I'd call Mum and she'd briefly pass the phone to Dad and we'd share a few words before he passed the phone back again. There have been occasional meets, at mutual venues, first with both of them, then, of course, just with Dad. I've occasionally been back to Bridgend since Mum passed, when I just couldn't resist the urge any longer, but I didn't tell him I was here.
I sit in the living room, my body sunk into the sofa. There is a picture of the four of us in the centre of
