**A Father for an Hour**
Henry first noticed the boy by the bread stand in a small corner shop on the outskirts of York. The child wasn’t looking at the loaves or rolls but staring past them, deep into the shelves, as if waiting for someone important to appear—someone who hadn’t come in a long time. Or maybe never existed at all. The boy himself was thin, wearing a worn-out puffer jacket with a torn sleeve and scuffed shoes too big for him, grey socks peeking out. His woolly hat sat crooked, and his mittens were stretched, as though they’d seen several generations before him. His cheeks were red from the cold, lips chapped.
His gaze wasn’t childlike. Not pleading, just steady—like an adult who had seen too much. Direct, heavy, with a quiet wariness, as if he already understood how the world worked and no longer hoped for exceptions.
Henry picked up a loaf and walked past. But after a few steps, he glanced back. The boy hadn’t moved. Rooted to the tiled floor, as if believing that if he just waited long enough, something might change.
He reminded Henry of someone. It wasn’t until later that he realised—it was a boy from the children’s home where he’d once volunteered. That boy had watched the world the same way, eyes too old for his face, neither asking nor trusting.
Ten minutes later, they met at the till. The boy was clutching two sweets, no bag, no basket. The cashier said something—evidently, he was short a few pence. Without arguing, he quietly put one sweet back and paid for the other. No fuss. The movement was practised, resigned, like someone who knew better than to want too much.
Henry stepped forward.
“Hey,” he said. “Let me get you something. Bread, yoghurt? Maybe some milk? No strings.”
The boy looked at him squarely. Not suspicious, just assessing.
“Why?”
No distrust, just fact. Nothing comes for free.
Henry hesitated. Not because he didn’t have an answer—but because the truth was too heavy.
“Just because I can. Because once, someone helped me too.”
The boy considered this, then nodded.
“Alright. Some boiled potatoes, then. And one sausage. No mustard. Too sharp for me.”
Outside, Henry handed him the bag, pretending it was nothing.
“Where d’you live?”
“Not far. But I’m not going home yet. Mum’s asleep. She gets tired. Sometimes sleeps a long time. I’d rather sit on the bench. You can see people there. It’s quieter.”
They sat on the cold bus-stop bench. The boy ate slowly, gripping the sausage with both hands. Small, deliberate bites, as if stretching the moment. Not a child’s greed—just quiet gratitude.
“My name’s Alfie. What’s yours?”
“Henry.”
“Can you… be my dad for an hour? Just till we’re done. No promises. Just pretend, like everything’s all right. Like I’ve got someone.”
Henry nodded. Something twisted inside him—unexpected, but he couldn’t refuse.
“I can do that.”
“Then tell me to put my hat on. And ask about school. Mum used to do that. When she was awake.”
Henry smiled, a little stiff at first—then real.
“Alfie, where’s your hat? Trying to catch a cold? And why’s your coat unbuttoned? How’s school?”
“Got a C in maths. But got top marks for behaviour. Helped an old lady cross the road. Dropped her bag, but picked it all up. She said trying matters most.”
“Good lad. But put your hat on. You’re the only you there is. Gotta take care.”
Alfie smiled. A quiet, grown-up smile. Finished the sausage, wiped his hands neatly, and tossed the napkin in the bin. Then he looked at Henry.
“Ta. You’re not like the others. Don’t pity or lecture. Just… act like it’s normal.”
“If I come back tomorrow—will you be here?”
“Dunno. Might be a bad day for Mum. Might come, though. I’ll remember you. You’ve got honest eyes.”
He stood, said goodbye, and walked off. Didn’t look back. The walk of someone used to not being followed. Light steps, but guarded, like he carried warmth inside and didn’t dare let it out.
Henry stayed. Stared after him. Wanted to call out. Didn’t.
The next day, he returned. And the day after. Every week, even in rain or frost. Not to wait—just because he’d silently promised.
Alfie didn’t come every time. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. Henry sat on the same bench, pretending to read. But whenever the boy appeared—in that same thin frame, slow walk, familiar downcast gaze—something in his chest loosened. Like ice thawing after years.
One afternoon, Alfie arrived with two plastic cups of tea, wrapped in napkins.
“Today you were Dad. Now I’ll be the son. Deal?”
Henry just nodded. Words stuck in his throat.
Sometimes, an hour is enough. To believe you matter to someone. That not everything’s lost.
