The Last Thing We Fixed

The toaster had finally broken. On this day, my father said, “Well, that’s it then,” as if it were a prophecy instead of an appliance.

It had been unreliable for years. Only popping when it felt like it, and sometimes tried to cremate the bread. Still, Dad seemed to fix it every time it failed. He would take it apart on the kitchen table, the smell of burnt crumbs clinging to his jumper, while screws rolled everywhere.

This time, it sparked and died for good.

With hands on his hips, Dad stared at it for a long moment. Then he sighed—not irritated, but as if a deep tiredness overcame him since Mum died.

“Guess some things don’t want to be fixed anymore,” he said.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say. I was only seventeen and had learned to be very good at being silent.

Mum had been gone around three years, but the grief had continued to linger in the corners. It waits for you to reach for the toast. We were alone in the house then. Just the two of us. We orbited each other carefully, like planets that had veered off course for a collision.

Dad finally carried the toaster to the bin like a fallen soldier.

That was the first thing he didn’t fix.

*****

My father could fix almost anything. When the fence leaned at an awkward angle, he straightened it. When the kitchen tap leaked, he coaxed it back into obedience. When my bike chain snapped, he repaired it with gentle hands. Hands that you’d never thought had worked twelve-hour shifts in a factory.

But there were things he never touched.

Mum’s mug still sat in the cupboard, a chip along the rim. Her scarf hung on the hook behind the front door. Her side of the bed remained untouched, still smooth as a fresh layer of snow.

Dad could mend wood, wire, and metal—but grief was a different kind of material altogether.

He tried his best, though. In his way.

Every Saturday morning, he’d make pancakes. Mum used to do that religiously to look after us. She’d flip them too high and then laugh when they landed crooked. Dad never laughed when he flipped them. Instead, he concentrated so hard on making them right, as if the fate of the universe depended on it.

“Pancakes,” he’d announce, as if the scent of the batter didn’t waft through the house.

I’d sit at the table, scrolling on my phone, pretending not to watch him fail to recreate something that had once been effortless. They were always a little burnt, but I ate them anyway, so he didn’t feel bad about the effort of continuing Mum’s tradition.

*****

The time had come for me to attend university. When I left, Dad hugged me too tightly, then pretended he hadn’t almost squeezed me to death.

“Call if anything breaks,” he said.

“I will,” I promised, knowing I probably wouldn’t.

We both understood the unspoken version of his words.

Call if you break.

*****

After I moved out, he started calling more. Sometimes it was about practical things.

“The garage door’s making a noise,” he’d say.

“What kind of noise?”

“A complaining one.”

Other times, he’d call to tell me what he’d been able to fix.

“Got the old radio working again,” he said once with pride sneaking into his voice. “The one your Mum liked.”

“That’s great, Dad.”

He paused for a moment before continuing. “She used to sing along to it,” his voice softening into sadness.

I imagined him alone, sitting in the lounge room, the radio humming, Mum’s absence louder than any other noise.

“You should sing too,” I said gently.

He snorted. “I’d break it again.”

*****

The call came on a Tuesday. That alone worried me as Dad never called on Tuesdays.

“I can’t fix it,” he said without preamble.

My stomach dropped. “Fix what, Dad?”

There was a long pause. Breathing from the other end of the line, which sounded too close to the phone, made my heart pound.

“The car,” he finally said. “It won’t start.”

Relief hit me so hard I laughed.

“Oh, Dad. I thought—”

“I know,” he said. “I did too.”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’ll come home this weekend,” I said.

“No,” he replied quickly. Too quickly. “No need. I’ll get someone.”

“You hate getting someone.”

“I know.” Another pause followed. “But maybe it’s time I stop pretending I can do everything myself,” he said slowly.

That scared me more than the broken car.

*****

I came home anyway. When I arrived, the driveway was empty. Dad stood in the front yard, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, watching the street like it might bring the car back on its own.

“You weren’t supposed to come,” he said, but there was relief in his eyes.

“I missed you,” I said. Dad turned away as he blinked rapidly.

When I walked inside, the house smelled the same. Dust, old books, and the faint trace of Mum’s perfume that had somehow survived all these years.

The radio was on—Mum’s station.

“You really did fix it,” I said.

Dad nodded with a soft smile. “Didn’t even fight me this time.”

We sat at the kitchen table. No pancakes. Just tea.

“I think I’m tired,” Dad said suddenly.

I waited as my heart began to beat furiously.

“Not sleepy,” he clarified, “Just… tired.”

I reached across the table and took his hand. They were rough, warm, and real.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” I said.

He smiled sadly. “That was my job.”

“No,” I said. “That was what you did. You’re more than that.”

He considered this like a complicated instruction manual.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he admitted after a moment.

“That’s okay,” I said. “We’ll learn together.”

*****

The car got towed, and a mechanic fixed it in two days. Dad watched the man work with fascination and something like envy.

“You make it look easy,” Dad said.

The mechanic shrugged. “Just practice.”

That night, Dad didn’t tinker. He didn’t fix anything. Instead, he sat on the couch and listened to the radio. And he sang. Quietly, off-key, badly. But he sang.

*****

The fence was the next thing to break again. Dad stood there assessing it, with his tools laid out at his feet. Then he surprised me.

“Help me,” he said.

I blinked. “Me?”

“You’ve got hands, don’t you?”

I laughed. “Barely qualified.”

“Good enough.”

We worked on it together. We argued, and we got splinters. At one point, Dad hammered his thumb and said a word Mum would have definitely scolded him for. I laughed so hard I cried. He laughed too. It felt like something unclenched.

*****

Years had passed by. Dad grew older, slower, and softer. Things broke more often, and he fixed fewer of them.

But he learned other things instead. He knew how to ask for help, how to sit with sadness without trying to repair it, how to let the silence exist without filling it with tools.

On his last day, we sat in the hospital room together. The radio was playing softly.

“Do you remember the toaster?” he asked suddenly.

I smiled. “Yeah.”

“I should’ve let that one go earlier,” he said.

I squeezed his hand. “You did your best.”

He looked at me, his eyes tired, but bright and full.

“I fixed a lot of things,” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed.

“But you,” he said softly. “You didn’t need fixing.”

I swallowed hard. “Neither did you.”

He smiled. Then he rested.

*****

I took the radio home with me. It still works.

Sometimes, when I listen, I imagine Dad singing off-key, Mum laughing, pancakes burning, fences leaning, and toasters breaking.

And I smile.

Because not everything that breaks is meant to be repaired.

Some things are meant to be remembered.