**One-Way Road**
*— Maybe you’ll start ironing his boxers next? Socks, eh? He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake! Let him manage on his own,* David scoffed as Lydia pulled on her coat.
He didn’t say it outright as an accusation, but the frost in his voice made her pause for a second, bewildered. She lowered her head, shoved her hands into her pockets, and slowly zipped up without turning around.
*— Maybe you could just stay quiet for once?* she murmured.
Footsteps retreated. David sighed and disappeared into the living room. Another evening alone. And there she was, rushing off to her father again…
Outside, snow blanketed the pavement—not the fresh, powdery kind that sparkles at Christmas, but the grimy slush surrendering to March’s weak sun. It didn’t even melt properly, just turned to mush underfoot.
Lydia slumped into the car and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel for a long moment. She wanted to cry, to have someone understand, but there was no one. Her gaze flicked to the bag of groceries on the passenger seat.
Roasted apples… Her dad used to love them. He’d make them himself—now, he probably didn’t even remember how to turn on the oven.
David hadn’t always been like this. When they first married, he’d been easygoing, attentive, the kind of man who fussed over her and the kids. It had warmed her heart back then.
But after their second child, something changed. He saw the world in black and white—*his* people and everyone else. For his own, he’d move mountains, but outsiders? Helping them was practically a weakness.
At first, Lydia found it almost endearing. Then she told herself it was just his way of loving. But now, when “everyone else” included her own father, she didn’t know what to do.
*— I’ve moved out. Rented a flat near the Tube. Filed for divorce,* her mother announced one day, as casually as if she’d picked new curtains.
The news blindsided Lydia, though she’d sensed the tension for years.
*— He’s not a bad man, I suppose. But we just… don’t fit,* her mum admitted to a friend over tea.
*— You’re too picky. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you—what more d’you want?* the friend dismissed.
*— Is that all there is to happiness? No, Maggie. There should be closeness. And what do we have? Him glued to his laptop, me knitting beside him just to share the silence. Can’t get him out of the house, can’t get him to talk.*
After the split, her mother thrived. Took up salsa, mastered the computer she’d once scorned, even started travelling with a new friend, Rose.
Sometimes Lydia caught herself envying her. Not that she had reason to—just that her mother had carved out a life where neither Lydia nor her father seemed to belong.
Her father, though? His world ended. He moved to a grim little flat in a bleak suburb. The place felt as hollow as he did.
Lydia visited weekly—cleaning, cooking, just sitting with him. At first, he resisted her care. Then he started drinking—not heavily, but enough to blur his eyes and slur his words.
*— Tossed me aside like an old glove,* he’d mutter. *And now you expect me to smile about it.*
*— Dad, stop. No one tossed you. You just… grew apart.*
*— Oh, she’s grown alright. Off gallivanting while I rot.*
It broke her heart. She didn’t know how to fix him, but she couldn’t walk away.
*— You’ve got a saviour complex,* David snapped when she came home late one night, exhausted. *First your nan, then your mate Sarah. Kids are older now, so it’s your dad’s turn.*
*— He’s got no one else.*
*— He’s fifty-four, for God’s sake! Not the first bloke to go through divorce. Let him sort himself out.*
*— He’s drowning in it.*
*— So you’ll drown with him? And drag me down too? Stop going.*
Her glare could’ve cut glass, but she said nothing. She’d keep visiting, openly or in secret.
Her father’s flat reeked of tobacco, stale beer, and something sour. He stood in the doorway, paunch spilling from a grubby vest, stubble shadowing his face, a crooked smile forced into place. Dusty bottles cluttered the corner.
*— Come in then, since you’re here,* he rasped.
The kitchen sink held a few crusted plates. His phone droned news updates. He lit a cigarette, hands trembling.
*— Drinking again?* she asked softly, already knowing.
*— Got a better way to cope?* He exhaled sharply. *Why d’you even come? To lecture me?*
She swallowed the lump in her throat. The bitterness, the ingratitude—she could take those. But watching him fade? Never.
*— I come because I care. I’m your daughter.*
*— Nah. You just like feeling needed. Think scrubbing floors’ll turn back time?*
*— I just don’t want to lose what’s left.*
His bleary eyes cleared for a second. Lips twitched. For a flash, she remembered being eight, tumbling off her bike, knees bloodied. Him scooping her up, whispering, *It’ll pass,* as he dabbed antiseptic on her scrapes.
Where was that man now?
*— Fancy some soup? I brought chicken, potatoes, carrots.*
*— No pans left. Burned ‘em.*
*— All of them? How?*
*— Dunno. Things wear out.*
She saw it then—if she pushed, he’d vanish completely. So she unpacked the groceries and left.
*— I’ll be back next week. Just… be here, yeah?*
*— Where else would I go?*
At home, she scrolled Gumtree for kids’ bikes. Then an ad caught her eye—an old Zenit camera. The very one Dad had kept for decades, the one he’d used at her graduation. *“Still works. No longer needed.”*
For a second, she wanted to disappear.
—
A year passed. Nothing changed, except the slow, steady decline.
Her father sat on a park bench, hunched in a frayed coat, a bottle of cheap cider beside him. A scruffy mutt limped over, sniffed, and sat. He tossed it some bread.
*— Go on, then. You on your own too?*
The dog stayed.
He remembered Rusty, his childhood collie, who’d vanished one winter. His mum said it’d found a new home. He’d starved himself waiting.
A week later, the stray—now named Tess—started waiting by his door. He’d shoo her off, but always fed her.
One freezing night, he slipped on ice. Tess barked frantically till a neighbour found him.
*— You alright, mate?*
*— Dunno. Blood pressure, maybe.*
They both knew. Neither said more.
That night, Tess slept indoors.
Meanwhile, David writhed in pain at home. Lydia forced him to A&E—gallstones. *“A few more hours, and it’d have been sepsis,”* the doctor said.
At dawn, David squeezed her hand. *“Ta.”*
*— Proud men. Never admit you need help.*
A week later, she visited Dad for his birthday. Tess trotted beside him, clean now, wearing a collar.
*— Where’d you get her?* Lydia smiled.
*— She found me. Maybe Someone sent her.*
She handed him a gift—the Zenit camera, bought back through a friend.
*— Might come in handy. You’ve grandkids, y’know.*
The past was gone. But some doors still opened forward.
**Lesson learned:** Pride isolates. Sometimes, it takes a stray—or a crisis—to remind us we’re all a little lost, and that’s alright.
