Father for an Hour
Andrew first noticed the boy by the bread stand in a small corner shop on the outskirts of Norwich. He wasn’t looking at the loaves or rolls—instead, he stared deep into the shelves as if waiting for someone important to emerge. Someone who had been gone too long. Or maybe someone who had never existed at all. The boy himself was thin, wearing an old, frayed puffer jacket with a torn sleeve. His grey socks peeked out from scuffed shoes, and his woolly hat sat crooked. His mittens were stretched, as if passed down through generations. His cheeks were red from the cold, his lips chapped.
His gaze wasn’t a child’s. Not pleading, not hopeful. It was the kind adults have when they’ve seen too much—steady, heavy, guarded in a way no child’s eyes should be. Like he’d already figured life out and now just watched, expecting nothing.
Andrew grabbed a loaf and walked past. But after a few steps, he glanced back. The boy hadn’t moved. He stood rooted to the tiled floor, as if convinced that if he didn’t leave, someone would come. Something would change.
He reminded Andrew of someone. Only later did he realise—the boy looked just like a lad from the children’s home where Andrew used to volunteer. He had that same quiet stare, a soul watching without asking or believing.
Ten minutes later, they met again at the checkout. The boy held two sweets—no bag, no trolley. The cashier said something, probably that he was short. Without argument, the boy put one back and paid for the other. All of it done calmly, decisively. As if he knew you couldn’t have everything at once. He was used to choosing between what he wanted and what he could get.
That’s when Andrew stepped forward.
*”Listen, let me buy you something. Bread, yoghurt, maybe some milk? Don’t worry. No strings.”*
The boy looked at him directly, unfazed. An adult’s gaze, tired of empty promises.
*”Why?”* he asked.
Not distrustful. Just a fact—nothing came for free.
Andrew hesitated. Not because he didn’t know the answer. But because the truth was too complicated.
*”Just because. Because I can. Because… once, someone helped me too.”*
The boy was quiet. Then, slowly, he nodded.
*”Alright. Could I have some boiled potatoes? And one sausage. No mustard. It tastes grown-up.”*
After paying, they stepped outside. Andrew handed him the bag, trying to make it feel casual.
*”Where do you live?”*
*”Not far. But I don’t want to go home yet. Mum’s asleep. She’s tired. Sometimes she sleeps a long time. I’d rather sit on the bench. You can see people there. It’s quieter.”*
They sat on the cold metal seat by the bus stop. The boy ate slowly, holding the sausage carefully with both hands. Small bites, chewing deliberately, as if stretching the moment. He didn’t eat like a child—he ate like someone who knew how to be silently grateful.
*”I’m Oliver. What’s your name?”*
*”Andrew.”*
*”Could you… well, just be my dad for an hour? Not forever. No promises. Just sit here like everything’s fine. Like I’ve got someone.”*
Andrew nodded. Something tightened in his chest. He hadn’t expected this, but he couldn’t say no.
*”Alright.”*
*”Then tell me to put my hat on. And scold me about school. Mum used to do that. When she wasn’t sleeping.”*
Andrew smiled, first a little forced, then real.
*”Oliver, where’s your hat? Trying to catch a cold? And why isn’t your coat done up? How’s school?”*
*”Got a C in maths. But an A in 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 look after yourself.”*
Oliver smiled. A quiet, grown-up smile. He finished the sausage, wiped his hands neatly on a napkin, and tossed it in the bin. Then he looked at Andrew.
*”Thanks. You’re different. Don’t pity me, don’t lecture. Just… act like it’s normal.”*
*”If I’m here tomorrow—will you come?”*
*”Dunno. Might be a bad day for Mum. Or I might. I’ll remember you. Your eyes don’t lie.”*
He stood, said goodbye, and walked away. Didn’t look back. Like people who know no one’s chasing after them. His steps were light but careful, as if keeping all the warmth inside, afraid it’d vanish in the open air.
Andrew stayed. Watched. Wanted to call out. Didn’t.
The next day, he came back. And the next. And the week after. Even in the snow, even in the cold. Not to wait. Just because he’d promised—even without words.
Oliver didn’t come every time. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t. Andrew sat on that same bench, pretending to read. But whenever the boy appeared—thin frame, unhurried walk, that familiar downward glance—something in his chest loosened. Like ice melting after years of frost.
One day, Oliver arrived with two plastic cups of tea, wrapped in napkins.
*”Today you were the dad. Now I’ll be the son. Deal?”*
Andrew just nodded. Couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat.
Sometimes, an hour is enough. Enough to believe you matter to someone. That not everything is lost.
