22October2025
Today I felt the weight of the windowsill at school, the same one Ive always chosen because it looks out onto the quiet lane behind the old terraced houses in York. Im Harry Whitaker, a quiet, thoughtful boy who spends most of the lesson day staring at the road as if waiting for someone. The other lads dont bully me, but they never try to be friends either Im a bit of an oddity to them.
I live with Gran. My mother died when I was very young, and I have no memory of my father at all. Gran always says he lost his way in life and never says anything more. Every morning she walks me to the bus stop, her steps slow but her hand always firm on mine. When shes ill I have to walk alone, and then I stare even longer out the window, hoping some familiar face will appear.
During a break one day a new boy sat down next to me. He had a mop of ginger hair and freckles, and introduced himself as Oliver Hart.
Why are you sitting here like a nightowl? he asked, pulling up a chair.
I shrugged. Nothing. Just that.
Oliver rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled Cadbury Dairy Milk, snapping it in two. Here, have one, he said.
I was taken aback but accepted it Im not used to sharing.
Dont mention it, he waved it off. My dad works at the chocolate factory, so Ive got a sea of sweet treats.
I managed a small smile. From that moment we became friends. Oliver is loud, always inventing games, while I mostly listen and laugh. After school wed wander the lanes, sometimes ending up at Olivers house where his fathera tall, booming manserved hot cheese toasties and told us funny anecdotes. I watched them and thought, I wish I had that too.
One afternoon Oliver asked, Wheres your dad?
I fell silent. Gran says he disappeared.
What do you mean disappeared? Oliver frowned.
Just left and never came back, I whispered.
Oliver scratched his head. Strange. Maybe we should look for him?
Where would we start?
Lets ask my dad. Hes clever.
That evening we went to Olivers kitchen, and I stammered out the whole story.
Sometimes adults lose the way back, Olivers father said thoughtfully. Maybe hes ashamed, or scared you wont forgive him.
Can you not be forgiven? I asked.
You can, he replied, but if you truly want to try
He pulled out a small notebook. I have a friend in the police, a detective who handles missing persons. If your fathers details are on record, we might locate him.
I clenched my fists. Really?
Really. Give me his name, any details you have.
I recounted my fathers name, his surname, the town where he was born, and promised to ask Gran for his birth date. Olivers dad wrote everything down.
Dont expect it to happen quickly. These things take time, he warned.
Weeks passedone, two, threemy hope was fading. Then, on a drizzly Thursday, as I walked home from school, I saw a tall man loitering by the flat block, smoking and glancing anxiously at his watch. Our eyes met.
Harry? he asked softly.
I didnt answer; fear seized me.
Im Im your father, he whispered, stepping forward, but I stepped back.
Is Gran home?
Yes
Then shall we go together?
I nodded. We walked up the steps. Gran opened the door, stared at the stranger, and tears burst from her eyes.
At last, she sobbed.
That night around the kitchen table, my father explained where hed been all those yearsmistakes, regrets, the struggle to start anew.
I didnt know how to return, he admitted, voice shaking. I was ashamed until the police called.
I stayed silent, then asked, Are you staying?
He looked at me, nodded.
If you let me.
Ill let you, I whispered, eyes dropping, then I threw my arms around his neck.
Stay! Just dont disappear again, alright? I said, clutching his coat.
He hugged me so tightly the old wooden chair creaked.
I promise, he said, voice trembling. Im not going anywhere.
Gran wiped her eyes with a tea towel and placed a steaming cabbage pieDads favouriteon the table.
Have a bite, love, she said. Homecooked.
As we ate, I stole glances at my father. He wasnt the superhero Id imagined, just an ordinary man with tired eyes and gentle laugh lines that turned into little smileroads when he chuckled. Those lines lit up his gaze with a mischievous sparkle.
Later, just before bed, he slipped into my room.
May I read? he asked, pointing at the picture book on the nightstand.
I moved aside. His voice was warm, a little husky, just like the bedtime stories Id imagined as a child. I thought maybe Id fall asleep quicker now, yet I lay awake, wanting simply to listen.
Dad, I interrupted at the most exciting part, what about tomorrow shall we go out?
He set the book down. Of course. Where to?
The park. The rides Ive never been on them, I stammered.
First time tomorrow, then, he smiled. Its a deal.
He ruffled my hair, switched off the light, and left the door slightly ajar, just as Gran always does.
The next morning I burst into school, the first person I saw was Oliver.
Hes here! Your dad helped! I shouted, halflaughing.
Oliver grinned and clasped my shoulder. Of course he did. How could he not?
Since then I no longer stare out the window during lessons. I know someones waiting. In the evenings, when Dad helps me with homework, I notice him turning my pencil over thoughtfully.
Whats wrong? I ask.
He sighs, Just thinking I missed so many yearsyour first steps, your first letters, your first day at school
I furrow my brow, then dash to the cupboard and bring out a photo album.
Look! Gran kept everything, I say.
We leaf through the pages, laughing at the goofy snapshots, until Dad pulls me into a tight hug.
Thank you for giving me a second chance.
You promised not to get lost again, I say seriously. Then everythings right.
Outside the street lamps flickered on, the kitchen smelled of Grans pies, and unfinished worksheets lay on the table. None of that matters now. What matters is that were together, and no one is going anywhere again.
