**Katie**
I dashed out of the flat and hurried toward the shop, eager to get there before closing—no one fancies supper without bread. At the entrance, a little girl, no older than four, stood clutching a tiny dog to her chest.
“Auntie, could you buy my puppy some bread, please?” she whispered, looking up hopefully at a woman stepping inside.
“Where’s your mum, love? It’s late to be out alone—go home!” The woman scolded before disappearing into the shop.
I paused, watching. The child’s eyes were hollow, miserable. It wasn’t really about the dog, was it? Unlike that woman, I guessed the truth—she was hungry, asking for herself.
“Does your pup eat bread?” I asked, stepping closer with a smile.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “He likes sausages and sweets best, but he’ll have bread if he’s hungry.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Wait here—I’ll be quick.”
Inside, I grabbed a loaf, then tossed in milk, yoghurt, biscuits, chocolates, and some Cumberland sausage. Queuing up, I couldn’t help but remember my own childhood. My mum drank too much; my dad was never around. I’d gone days without food when her cleaner’s wages ran out and she vanished into another binge. Sometimes, I’d scour playgrounds after dark, shining a torch into sandpits, hoping to find half-eaten biscuits. I knew that look in Katie’s eyes—hopeless, hollow.
Back outside, I handed her the bag but realised she couldn’t carry it—not with that trembling mutt in her arms.
“I got your dog some food. You live far?”
She shook her head, pointing to the block of flats across the road. “Just there.”
“Come on, I’ll help you carry it.”
Her face lit up as she skipped ahead, humming a tune I faintly recognised.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Katie,” she said. “And this is Benji.”
She told me about her mum and gran, how she’d found Benji wandering and took him in. I hoped I was wrong—maybe her mum was decent, just struggling.
“Here’s my place,” Katie said, pointing to a second-floor window blasting music into the night. “I won’t go in yet. I’ll stay outside with Benji. You can leave the food here.”
“Is your gran home?” I asked. It was nearly eleven—far too late for a child to be out.
“She is. Got her pension today. They’re drinking in the kitchen.”
I stood there, gutted. The street was empty, dark. I couldn’t leave her. “Take Benji inside, eat, and go to bed. It’s not safe out here. Someone might take him.”
She clutched the pup tighter. I walked her to the door, watching until she slipped inside.
Back home, my wife, Emily, was furious. Dinner was cold; she’d been worried sick. Six months pregnant, her moods swung wildly, but I didn’t mind. Seeing my dark expression, she pressed me. Over supper, I told her about Katie and Benji—her only friend, it seemed.
“You did right, helping her,” Emily sighed. “But there’s only so much we can do. We’ve our own boy on the way.”
I knew she was right. Still, I barely slept that night.
A week later, we spotted Katie again outside the shop, sobbing.
“Katie! What’s wrong?”
“They took Benji!” she wailed. “Some boys stole him—went that way!”
I sprinted off, returning minutes later with the pup. Emily was comforting Katie on the bench, then stiffened. “John, look—bruises on her arms, her cheek. Her mum did this. I’m calling the police.”
“Do it,” I said.
Katie clung to me, begging not to be handed over. I felt like a traitor, but she couldn’t stay there.
The officers arrived quickly. Emily insisted they intervene.
“You’re bad!” Katie screamed at me. “I thought you were my friend!”
They carried her off, and I sat there, hollow, with Benji in my lap.
“I’m keeping him,” I growled.
“Fine,” Emily said softly. “She’ll be better off in care.”
“You’ve no idea what care’s like,” I snapped.
We didn’t speak the rest of the night.
Later, Emily found me in the kitchen. “John… what if we took her in?”
My heart leapt. “Seriously?”
“But what if they won’t let us? She’s got a mother.”
“They will,” I said firmly. “I’ve got contacts.”
Three months later, I arrived at the care home. Katie was playing outside.
“John!” She beamed. “Are you taking me home today?”
“Today,” I laughed.
“Why didn’t Emily come?”
“She’s waiting at home—with your baby brother.”
“And Benji? Is he there too?”
“Course. You’re his best friend.”
Driving back, I felt light. We’d won custody. No, we couldn’t save every child—but we’d made one life better.
I’d make sure my kids never knew hunger, never dug through sandpits for scraps.
That’s what fathers do.
