June 22, 2025
I received a most unwelcome surprise today.
Look who’s turned up, the one nobody expected! shouted my father, David Clarke, snapping his leather belt tight around his waist. If youve come back, you might as well turn around and leave again!
Whats the matter, Father? I asked, bewildered. I havent set foot in this house for twenty years, and you meet me like this?
If it were up to me, Id have met you with a strap! he snarled, gripping the belt. But never mind well sort this out right now.
Take it easy, Dad, I retreated a step. Im not a child; I can defend myself.
Thats the spirit, he muttered, tossing the belt aside. You pick on the weak, run from the strong, deceive the good, and serve the wicked.
Why are you so angry, really? What are you accusing me of? I shrugged. Even if I had any fault, two decades have passed. Time has softened it.
Youre quick to talk about forgiveness when youre the one at fault, David replied. Im not ready to forgive you.
What could I possibly have done to you? I protested. In the academy I spent every waking hour wondering why my parents branded me a traitor and forbade me from coming home. You never answered any of my letters, even though I wrote countless ones!
Do you not know? he sneered.
I could see the confusion on my face, but before I could clarify, my mother, Margaret Clarke, intervened, her voice cutting through the argument.
Enough! she shouted. Ive had enough of this! Get him out, Michael, before he brings shame on our family!
Her words left me frozen, as if Id turned to stone. She added, If God gave me strength, Id haul you away by the throat. I see Gods own hand in this mess, gesturing at the dark bruise under my right eye.
Someones been handy with a fist, David chuckled, shaking his head. Id give that lad a proper handshake.
Parents, whats going on? I cried out, feeling my sanity slipping. Ive been away for twenty years! Why this sudden hostility?
Who sent you here? David asked. Well chase you off, and then thank the one who helped us.
I dont know who they are, I snapped. I was on a coach heading home when my neighbour, Pete, recognised me and ran to greet me.
At the stop, a young lad leapt out, shoved me in the face, spat, and fled. By the time I recovered, he was gone.
What a mystery hero! David said, smiling. Well have to ask Pete who that was.
Father, is this all you care about? I shouted. Just because Ive been away for two decades, you think I can simply disappear?
Why are you here, traitor? Margaret retorted.
Why am I a traitor? I demanded.
Because a voice from the kitchen shouted.
Whos the brave one now? I snapped, anger rising.
A figure stepped into the light.
That lad over there slapped me! I shouted, pointing at a lanky teenager.
Good lad, my grandson! David beamed. You didnt miss your chance!
My grandson? I recoiled.
Exactly! Margaret shielded him. Hes your son, abandoned!
I have no son! I protested, my voice shaking. I never did. And if I had, Id know him!
Remember why you fled the village twenty years ago, David said, his tone thick with grief.
***
I never called my departure a run away. It was a carefully planned leave. I simply left a little earlier than intended, for reasons Ill outline now.
I had to travel almost the length of the country to attend a nautical academy. The scholarship I received barely covered a modest life, and asking my parents for money across the miles was impossiblethey could only send provisions, and sending food by post was a nightmare.
The second reason was more pressing. A few weeks before I was due to leave, a wave of unwelcome courtship swept through my hometown. If Id lingered even a fortnight, I might never have left at all. The unwanted suitors were the very thing that drove me to pack my bags.
When people asked me why, Id have said: I want my life to be tied to the sea. I wont stay at home while my future drifts away.
My love of the sea was accidental. After school I served in the Royal Navy, hoping to fulfil a duty to country before deciding my own path. Years at sea taught me that land life wasnt for me. When I finally returned, I held a letter of acceptance to the engineering college that would train me as a ships mechanic.
Before beginning my studies I indulged in the sort of reckless fun young men relish after the servicelate nights, brawls, and all the usual mischief. By then Id learned that a real harddrink for a sailor was a blackout, and the rest of the time was a string of daring exploits, whether at a pub table or on a street corner.
I saw the types of lads who returned from the navy proud as eagles, only to be chained later to a wife, children, a farm, and a mortgage. I didnt want to become a caged chicken. So even when the revelry was tempting, I kept a tight grip on my belt, literally stitching it on my own trousers and fastening the buckle firmly.
There were certainly bumps along the way, but it was better to suffer a little now than to endure a lifetime of regret.
My reputation grew among the villages eligible maidens. I was young, promising, with a clear plan, and no scandal to tarnish my name. Yet I was besieged from all sidesinvites, flattery, promises of affection. My parents even entertained proposals, hoping to secure a future alliance through me.
Seeing the pressure, I realised I couldnt hold the line forever. Either Id be forced into something I didnt want, or my parents would convince me otherwise. So I slipped away again, a month and a half before the agreed date. As the saying goes, Better safe than sorry.
In the port city I secured a berth, rented a room in a sailors hostel, enrolled in the course, received my acceptance notice, and wrote home to say Id arrived, found work, and was doing fine.
In reply came a bitter missive, branding me a traitor, a coward, and a host of other unflattering epithets. It declared that I no longer had parents, no home, and that my place was in the deep sea.
I was bewildered, writing back for clarification, but they never sent another telegram. I could have stormed back, but my studies kept me anchored. I kept writing letters, one after another, even after I earned my diploma.
When the final diploma arrived, a single, crumpled note slid in:
May you drown, traitor! Coward!
Signed not by my mother or father, but by David Clarke and Margaret Clarke. I never learned why, but it was clear they no longer welcomed me home.
So I signed a naval contract and returned to the waves. Every six months I would set foot on solid ground, send another letter home, then sail away again, no longer waiting for a reply.
At forty, I finally decided to confront the ghosts of my past.
What were you running from? I shouted, mimicking the earlier taunts. Did you think I hadnt seen the deals you cut with half the village to find a convenient match for me?
Yes, Margaret snapped, you married a swindler and fled!
She claimed a woman named Emily had once written to me, saying she was pregnant, and that Id told her to abort.
Interesting, I replied. And you? After I was expelled from the house?
We took her in, David said. Shes an orphan, bearing our grandsons child. Thats how we raised little Stan.
I demanded to see Emily.
Theres no one to talk to, Stan answered. My mother died ten years ago. My grandparents raised me.
Fine, I said, shaking my head. My father met his end eyetoeye with his own son.
What you did to my pregnant mother was unforgivable, Stan yelled. At least my grandparents were decent people!
Exactly, Margaret said. All of you are right, and Im the traitor.
And a coward! David added. You fled responsibility and sent a poor girl to an abortion.
Emily had told us shed given birth, yet you called her a liar in your last letter!
Did you ever read the letter? I asked.
Unlike you, we believed the girl, Margaret replied.
Then lets do a DNA test, I suggested. If Im the father, you can crucify me at the gate.
The test came back negative. I handed the results to my parents.
Clear enough? I asked. Emily knew I wasnt the father. She came to you instead.
The real tragedy isnt that you believed a falsehood, but that you accepted a narrative that painted your own son as a coward and traitor. For twenty years you refused to forgive me, and now your forgiveness means nothing to me. I feel no pity, no sorrow. So farewell, though you said goodbye twenty years ago.
I left, while Stan stayed, continuing to milk the elderly, insisting he was their beloved grandson, claiming the test was wrong, and that his mother was saintly.
—
Lesson learned: the longer you cling to old grudges, the more you imprison yourself in a story that isnt yours. Letting go isnt surrender; its freeing the self from the weight of others expectations.
