**One-Way Road**
“Maybe you should wash his pants too, eh? Socks, perhaps? He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake! Let him manage himself,” grumbled James as his wife Emma pulled on her jacket.
His words weren’t exactly accusing, but the chill in his tone made her pause for a second. She lowered her head, tucked her hands into her pockets, and without looking back, slowly zipped up her coat.
“Maybe you could just… not say anything?” she murmured softly.
Footsteps echoed. James exhaled sharply and retreated to the living room. Another evening alone. And she was rushing off to her father again…
Outside, the snow had lost its charm. Not the kind that sparkles around Christmas—fluffy and fresh. No, this was March’s surrender, turning into a soggy mess underfoot. Emma slid into the car and rested her forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. She wanted to sob. To be understood, to be comforted. But there was no one beside her. Her gaze drifted to the grocery bag.
Baked apples… Her father used to adore them. Once, he’d made them himself. Now, he probably didn’t even remember how to use the oven.
James hadn’t always been this irritable. When they married, he was lively, attentive, caring. Emma had adored how he fussed over her and the kids.
But after their second child and rising expenses, something shifted. He saw the world as us versus them. For “his own,” he’d do anything—but outsiders? Interference? That was practically an attack. Helping others was weakness.
At first, Emma found it almost endearing. Then she told herself it was his way of loving. Now, though, when “them” meant her own father… she didn’t know what to do.
“I left. Got a flat near the Tube. Filed for divorce,” her mother announced one day, breezy as if discussing new curtains. It blindsided Emma—though looking back, the cracks had always been there.
“He’s not a bad man, really. But we just… didn’t fit,” her mother sighed to a friend.
“You’re too picky. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit—that’s enough,” the friend dismissed.
“Is that all happiness is? No, Sarah. There’s got to be closeness. And us? He’s at his computer, I’m knitting beside him, just to be near. Silence. Can’t get him out, can’t get him to talk.”
After the divorce, her mother flourished. Took up dancing, mastered the laptop she’d once scorned, made friends online. Met a woman named Agnes, and off they went, touring cathedral towns and seasides.
Sometimes Emma caught herself envying her. Not for any real reason. Just… her mother had a new life—one with no room for Emma or her father.
Her father, though… His life ended that day. He moved to a cramped flat in a grim estate. The place felt barren, and his presence made it bleaker.
Emma visited weekly—cleaning, cooking, sitting silently. At first, he resisted her care. Then he drank. Not binges, but enough to cloud his eyes and slur his words.
“Threw me away like an old glove,” he’d mutter. “And you want me to smile?”
“Dad, stop. No one threw you away. You just… grew apart.”
“Oh, aye. Look how ‘apart’ she is—Facebook full of snaps. Me? I’m done.”
Her heart ached. She didn’t know how to help him. But she couldn’t leave him either.
“You’ve got a saviour complex,” James said flatly when she returned late one night. “Always someone to carry. Gran, your mate Lisa. Kids grew up, so now it’s your dad.”
“He’s got no one. Just me.”
“He’s fifty-four! Not the first bloke divorced. Free, healthy. Let him be!”
“He’s drowning in it.”
“So you’ll drown with him? And drag me down too? Stop going.”
Her eyes turned sharp, but she stayed silent. She’d keep visiting. Openly or not.
His flat reeked of smoke, stale beer, something sour. He stood in the doorway—greying vest, belly hanging over his trousers, shaky grin. Bin bags and bottles cluttered the corner.
“Well, come in, since you’re here,” he rasped.
The kitchen sink held few dishes, but they’d been there days. A phone droned news updates. He lit a cigarette, hands trembling.
“Drinking again?” she asked quietly, already knowing.
“Got a better reason not to?” he grunted, exhaling. “Why d’you even come? To lecture?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. The bitterness, the ingratitude—she’d adjusted. But watching him fade? Never.
“I come because I care. I’m your daughter.”
“Bollocks. You’re ticking boxes. Think scrubbing floors’ll turn back time?”
“I just want what’s left.”
His eyes flickered—muzzy, then clear. Lips moved, but no words came. A memory flashed: summer, age eight. She’d fallen off her bike, knees scraped raw. He’d scooped her up, murmuring, *”It’ll pass,”* as he dabbed antiseptic on her wounds. Those same hands. Back when they shook from urgency, not drink.
Where was that man? Why didn’t the pain pass?
She sat beside him. He just snorted.
“Want soup? I brought chicken, potatoes, carrots. We could make it.”
“No pans. All burnt out.”
“All of them? How?”
“Dunno. Time’s up for old things, eh?”
He was vanishing. If she pressed, he’d disappear entirely. So she stood, unpacked the groceries, and headed out.
“I’ll come next week. Or sooner. Just… be here, yeah?”
“Where else would I go?”
At home, scrolling Gumtree for kids’ bikes, an ad popped up: *”Vintage Zenit camera. Still works. Don’t need it.”* Her heart stalled. The very one he’d kept for decades. The one he’d used at her graduation.
She wanted to vanish…
…A year passed. Nothing changed—except the slow, steady decline. Her father hunched on a bench, frayed jumper under a tatty coat. A cloudy bottle beside him, a bag of cheap groceries.
Empty. Emma visited less. Maybe she saw no point. Maybe she was tired…
…A scruffy mutt limped past—thin, droopy-eared. It sniffed, then sat. He meant to shoo it, but tore off bread instead.
“Here, stray. Lonely too?”
The dog ate, then stayed. Flopped down, sighed, rested its head on its paws—eyes pleading.
He remembered Red. His childhood dog who’d bolted one winter, never returned. Mam said maybe it found a new home. He’d starved two days, waiting.
A week later, the stray waited by his door. He named her Tess.
“Tess, what’re you after?” he’d grouse when she slipped into the stairwell.
He never let her inside—just fed her, then shooed her off before the neighbours complained.
One evening, he sat outside again. Minus-ten, but he barely felt it. Head throbbing, legs stiff. He stumbled—and fell.
He’d have lain there longer if not for Tess. Barking, tugging his sleeve. Then a voice:
“Oi! You alive?”
A neighbour from down the block. Later, he’d only recall boots crunching snow, an arm hauling him up, a muttered *”Christ, man,”* as he was steered home.
“Heart attack?”
“Dunno. Blood pressure, maybe.”
Both knew. Neither said more.
That night, Tess slept indoors. She’d darted in, and he hadn’t the heart to kick her out.
Meanwhile, James writhed in pain across town—a screwdriver twisting his ribs. Pale, sweating, he just lay there.
Emma woke to his restless shifting.
“We’re going to A&E. Now.”
“Nah. It’ll pass.”
“Want that on your tombstone? Get dressed.”
She didn’t hesitate. Called an ambulance. Gallstones, the doctor said. A few more hours—peritonitis.
Emma kept vigil all night. James stayed silent, awake.
“Ta,” he muttered at dawn.
“Men. Too proud to admit they need help sometimes.”
He scowled, but squeezed her hand.
A week later, Emma visited for her dad’s birthday—and found him walking Tess. Proud, leash in hand, the dog groomed and collared.
“Blimey! Where’d she come from? Pedigree?”
No longer a stray—clean, brushed. Like him: new coat, trimmed beard.
“Found me,” he said. “Or maybe someone sent her.”
She smiled, handed him a gift bag.
“For you.She tucked the old camera back into his hands, and for the first time in years, he didn’t push her away.
