The thought had always been there. The need. The desire to find more information niggled in the back of his brain, pushed back by more pressing thoughts, but still always there. It had flared up, over Christmas. A comment his mother had made, so small and off handed, had made the impact. “Your father would’ve loved those,” she said, about the socks he’d received from his Aunt. The comment had stuck with him, and now, whilst he was trying to study, it was all he could think about.
“I think I want to try and find my dad,” the statement abrupt, he tore his eyes from his textbook, looking to where Alice was sitting at the other end of his sofa for a sign it was a good idea.
Because he didn’t know if it was a good idea. He didn’t even know where to start. Where was one supposed to start, when their dad just disappeared like he’d never even existed in the first place? But he did exist. Frank had the memories, and the sock collection, that proved that. And something in him told him the man hadn’t just left them