My son sent a letter in a bottle, hoping to find the father he had never met. I thought it would drift into silence until two men appeared at our gate.
I don’t even remember how it started. Maybe it was the drawing, maybe the question.Or maybe it was that quiet look in my son’s eyes—the one children get when they sense something’s missing but don’t yet have the words.
Tommy was four. He drew a stick-figure ship, a smiley face with a mustache, and blue waves that looked like spaghetti. Then he handed me a marker and whispered, “Write to him that I’m waiting. And that we live in the house with the red roof. So he can find us if he’s lost.”
Because that was easier than telling him the truth that his father packed his bags one day, promised to come back, and never did.
I made up the story of the sailor. Brave, strong, just a little lost. A father like that seemed better than the real one.
As Tommy grew, the letters changed. At five, he drew pictures. At six, he signed his name and an address. At seven, he wrote a real letter. At eight, he added his pocket money and wrote:
“If you don’t have enough to buy a ticket.”
Every year, Tommy bought a new bottle with a cork. He carefully rolled up the letter, tied it with a string, and carried it to the canal.