After years of searching, daughter reunites with homeless father in London
From afar, I spotted a man who resembled my father. I lingered out of sight as Verral spoke to him. “There is someone who wants to see you,” he said, mentioning my name. From about a hundred meters away, I watched them talk. My dad’s face lit up. He adjusted his clothes, combed his hair, and straightened himself with care. That simple act moved me deeply. He did not need to do it, but it showed his thoughtfulness.
- 3 weeks ago
December 15, 2024
Mika with a supportive friend | Photo courtesy of Mika Ap Ellis. 
LONDON, United Kingdom — After years of searching, with countless pauses and restarts, I finally reached out to Verral Paul-Walcot last year. He acted swiftly, finding my father and making our reunion possible.
The day filled me with both excitement and anxiety. As I bent down and embraced him, a lifetime of longing melted away in his arms. Though we had never met, his embrace felt like home. In that moment, the emptiness that had shadowed my life vanished, leaving me whole for the first time.
Drawn to my father: hearing his story and longing for reunion
My mom and dad separated shortly after my birth. Pain dictated my mother’s silence, and she evaded every mention of him. Each time I asked about his life or whereabouts, she diverted the conversation with vague responses. Her efforts to erase him from my life only deepened his presence in my thoughts and heart.
I fiercely clung to the few tangible memories of my father. One memory shines brightest—a fleeting moment I cherish as a refuge. At three years old, I sat on a swing in the square during what must have been a rare visit after my parents’ separation. My father stood beside me, both of us smiling. That moment anchors itself in my mind, offering comfort and happiness. It remains my only childhood memory of him, filling my heart with the proof he briefly stood by my side.
At home, I found a few photos and letters from my father. I studied them obsessively, tracing his features and comparing them to mine. My finger followed the curves of his handwriting, hoping it might reveal something about him. Every time I approached my mother for information, I encountered an unyielding wall. Her refusal to share details frustrated me and strained our relationship over time. Once, after I returned from a concert in London with friends, she mentioned running into my dad. She hinted at his life on the street but shared nothing more, leaving me with more questions than answers.
I often watched online videos of children with their parents, drawn to their love. These moments warmed my heart but stirred sadness. Then, everything changed. One day, my mom showed me a YouTube video of my father. My heart raced as I listened to him speak about his life and his deep longing to reunite with his daughter.
Video sparks my journey to find my dad
I replayed the video endlessly, more than thirty times. Hearing my father’s voice and seeing his smile for the first time overwhelmed me. I studied every detail—his expressions, the emotions behind his words. The moment felt both beautiful and overwhelming, as if urging me to take the next step. It gave me the courage to start searching for him.
I turned to social media, sending messages to every homeless shelter I could find in London. I contacted train and tube stations, hoping someone might recognize him. Determined, I visited shelters and soup kitchens in person, thinking, “If I cannot find him, maybe someone else can.” Yet, every effort seemed futile. Even when people recognized him, data protection laws prevented them from revealing his whereabouts. Frustration built, and eventually, I paused my search.
Time passed, but hope quietly reignited. I resumed the search, posting updates on my social networks. A friend shared my story on Facebook and connected me with someone who had seen my dad. They even sent me a photo. Seeing his face filled me with excitement—I felt close to finding him. But the lead faded into nothing.
This cycle repeated countless times. Each new piece of information reignited hope, setting my heart racing with anticipation. Then, when the trail inevitably vanished, despair pulled me back into a hollow ache. For ten years, I endured this exhausting loop of hope and heartbreak. Each attempt drained me emotionally, but the longing to reconnect with my father refused to fade. No matter how often I felt defeated, the hope of finding him kept pulling me forward.
My phone lit up with the message I had been waiting for: “I found him.”
Last year, I watched an interview on TV with Verral Paul-Walcott, a man who helps London’s homeless by distributing food and supplies. Without delay, I picked up my phone, searched for him on social media, and sent him a message. He responded immediately, igniting hope with his assurance to help. He acted quickly and with purpose.
One evening, while cleaning up after dinner, my phone lit up with the message I had been waiting for: “I found him. When you feel ready, let us arrange a meeting,” Verral wrote. Tears streamed down my face as joy, relief, and grief surged through me. Finally, I knew my dad’s whereabouts. For the first time in years, I felt a deep happiness and a sense of completeness, no longer lost in uncertainty.
Although excitement urged me to arrange the meeting immediately, social anxiety gripped me. I paused, uncertain whether I could handle the magnitude of that moment. I needed time to prepare my emotions and thoughts. Each day, I worked through the whirlwind of possibilities. I questioned whether my dad would welcome me or if the meeting might fail entirely. I braced myself for every outcome, cycling through hope and doubt.
Fear persisted, but I chose to confront it. I shared my thoughts with friends, practiced conversations in front of the mirror, and rehearsed questions aloud, imagining every word and gesture. Each attempt strengthened my resolve, helping me picture myself standing before him with confidence. Nearly a year passed before I reached a point where I felt ready. That time gave me the strength and clarity to embrace the moment fully, prepared to make our reunion meaningful.
A long awaited moment: “The hug felt like a lifetime’s worth of missed moments condensed into one”
When I felt ready, I reached out to Verral. He had kept me updated on my father’s condition and location, ensuring I remained connected to this long-awaited moment. On the appointed day, I woke early, anxiety taking over. A friend accompanied me on the train to London. The journey lasted an hour, followed by another hour-long ride to the neighborhood where my dad stayed. Fear clung to me. I had envisioned this moment for so long, but doubts whispered—what if it unfolded differently than I had imagined?
When we arrived, I approached cautiously, staying at a distance. From afar, I spotted a man who resembled my father. I lingered out of sight as Verral spoke to him. “There is someone who wants to see you,” he said, mentioning my name. From about a hundred meters away, I watched them talk. My dad’s face lit up. He adjusted his clothes, combed his hair, and straightened himself with care. That simple act moved me deeply. He did not need to do it, but it showed his thoughtfulness.
For over an hour, I paced, summoning courage. Finally, I stepped forward. My friend went ahead to confirm it was him, then signaled for me to approach. My heart pounded as I walked closer, emotions surging through me. He sat at a bus stop with his dog. As I reached him, I bent down, and we embraced. The hug felt like a lifetime’s worth of missed moments condensed into one. In his arms, I felt a sense of home, as though I had hugged him every day of my life.
After years of searching, I finally hold my father close
“Are you okay?” we asked each other as if rehearsed. Meeting for the first time felt strangely familiar. We walked to a nearby park and spent the entire day talking. Questions tumbled out of me as I worked to uncover his story and fill the missing pieces in mine. At the same time, I wanted him to know everything about me. Words flowed uncontrollably, like a child eagerly sharing every detail of a school day. The conversation carried a natural rhythm, as if we both longed for this connection.
For nine hours, we sat under the shifting sun, exchanging stories and moments. When evening arrived, my friend and I had to leave. My dad decided to stay, choosing the street that had become his home. He felt unready to change that part of his life. We agreed to meet again the following day.
The next day, we spoke for hours again. Returning home left me emotionally exhausted, as the events of those two days swirled through my mind. New images and conversations overwhelmed my thoughts, keeping me awake through the night. Yet, for the first time in my life, I felt whole. The emptiness I carried for so long dissolved. Even those around me noticed the transformation, commenting that I appeared lighter, as though a heavy burden had vanished.
Since that moment, Verral has bridged the gap, ensuring I stay connected with my dad. Without a phone or social media, he depends on these efforts. At least once a month, we meet and talk, reconnecting and sharing pieces of our lives. After years of searching, I finally hold him close again. Every tear, every step, and every moment of waiting now carries meaning, I can say with certainty: he is here.
