Homecoming of the Guardian Father

A sharp looking middle-aged man had his phone pressed to his ear, on a call.

That man was in his forties, but he hardly looked it. His features were sharp, steady and almost youthful; as if time forgot to touch him.

On the other end of the line, a respectful voice reported, “Commander, it’s exactly as you said. No one came to the prison gate to receive you. Not a single person, even though your twenty-year sentence has ended. There’s no family waiting to take you home.”

The man in discussion, Robert Orwell, stood silently for a moment. Despite the years that should have hardened him, there was a calm softness to him.

He gave a faint, cool smile.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Robert said into the phone quietly. “No one visited me for twenty years, and so I knew no one was going to come for me either the day I am meant to leave prison.”

“So… what now, Commander?” the caller asked.

“I want you to leave there and stop watching the prison gate, hoping someone will come for me,” Robert replied. “It’s a waste of time, deputy.”

“Yes, Commander. I’ll return to headquarters then. But… what will you do after now?”

Robert was standing in front of a mirror inside a shopping-mall washroom.

He studied his reflection in silence—he really had the face of a man who looks far too young to have lived through twenty years behind bars.

He opened a plastic bag and took out a false beard.

Slowly and carefully, he wore the false beard.

The reflection staring back at him changed immediately and he looked older, wearier. Like a man who had truly been in prison for twenty years.

“For now,” Robert answered softly, eyes still fixed on the mirror, “I just want to see my daughter again. I’ve waited long enough.”

“Understood, Commander,” the man replied, and the line disconnected.

Robert finished his disguise. He pulled on a worn-out red shirt and faded black jeans clothes that made him look like he had nowhere in the world to go. Then he left the washroom and stepped out of the mall.

Beside the entrance, there was a small shop that sold incense and funeral flowers. He walked towards it.

“Can I get some incense?” he asked quietly.

The shopkeeper smiled gently. “Yes. We have many kinds. This one, the pack of the incense sticks is $10… this other one is $70, and we also have—”

“Give me the most expensive incense stick,” Robert cut her off. “Let it be one that can help a wandering soul find peace.”

The woman paused, then nodded warmly.

“Whoever this lost person is… they are lucky to have someone like you who can accompany their soul to find peace through special incense.”

Robert said nothing.

Just then, two luxury cars pull up in front of the shop. Several men stepped out quickly.

One approached Robert, bowed deeply, and said: “Lord of Law, please return with us. The city-firm has been fading without you.”

Another stepped forward, "Uncle is losing his mind, having a heart attack, thinking his legacy will fall. His sons are terrible at holding the Firm the way only you can do."

"Even Brother Asher has instructed that we return with you at once."

Robert’s face showed coldness mixed with nonchalance. He really hated talking too much.

He’d say this once again and say it for the last time, “I do not care if the Firm is derailing but as for uncle’s health, tell him to take care of himself. It was his choice to throw me out so he could crown his sons heirs of the Firm."

"Right from the day uncle Peter met me in prison and gave me a helping hand solely to study law and work for him until the day he threw me out, I endured humiliation from his three sons—12 years. In all that time, uncle Peter never paid attention to me and never cared to know I was the reason why the Firm was doing better and better. He threw me out when his biological sons felt threatened and now he wants me to just walk back to him like 8 years didn’t just go by with him not reaching out once!"

"Don’t bother me because I want to live a new life and try to start afresh for the sake of my daughter."

After saying these, Robert took the incense sticks pack, paid for it and walked away. He had left those men who were his cousins, stunned.

Robert had gone to the Clayton family household where a death memorial for his late wife, Belinda Clayton, and her parents—his late in-laws—was being held.

He had just come down from the cab when he saw a pretty, young and stunning figure talking to two elderly couple, with sadness in her eyes.

“Grandma, grandpa, I’m so sorry you cannot come inside with me. I do not want you both to be insulted and humiliated again today,” she held their hands.

The old lady nodded in understanding even though her eyes held deep sadness. “It’s alright, Robin.”

The old woman patted the young lady’s hair but the young girl’s face quickly turned into a frown and she left their hands.

“You do not listen, grandma. Don’t call me Robin. My name is Winter Clayton,” she argued.

The old woman only nodded, defeated.

Robert, who had overheard their conversation, felt his heart smile. That pretty girl was no other but his daughter who he had to leave when she was just two.

The name ‘Robin’ was given by him. It warmed his heart that someone kept reminding his daughter of that name; of him!

“I will go inside now, Grandma. Go home and don’t wait for me, Grandpa. Bye,” she waved them goodbye.

She walked down to the entrance door of the household and stood, clenching her fist out of nervousness. She closed her eyes so tight and then opened them.

By the time she opened her eyes, a middle-aged man with scruffy long beards and worn clothes was by her side.

She frowned. “You?”