—Maybe next you’ll wash his underwear too? His socks, eh? He’s a grown man, for God’s sake! Let him sort himself out,— Vadim muttered as his wife, Emily, pulled on her coat.
His tone wasn’t exactly accusatory, but the ice in his voice made her freeze for a heartbeat. She lowered her head, shoved her hands into her pockets, and slowly zipped up without turning around.
—Maybe you could just be quiet?— she replied softly.
Footsteps echoed as Vadim sighed and walked into the living room. Another evening. Alone again. And she—racing off to her father…
Snow lay outside the building—not the cheerful, powdery kind you see at Christmas. No, this was the defeated slush of March, half-melted and clinging to the pavement in grimy clumps. Emily climbed into the car and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel for a long moment. She wanted to sob. Wanted someone, anyone, to understand. But there was no one. She glanced at the grocery bag beside her.
Roasted apples… Her father used to love them. Used to make them himself. Now, she doubted he even remembered how to turn on the oven.
Vadim hadn’t always been so bitter. When they first married, he was lighthearted, attentive. She’d found it endearing, the way he fussed over her and the kids.
But after their second child, something shifted. He saw the world in terms of *his* people and *everyone else*. For his own, he’d go to the ends of the earth. But anyone outside that circle? He treated them like intruders. He sneered at kindness to strangers, calling it weakness.
At first, Emily had thought it almost sweet—his fierce loyalty. Then she’d told herself it was just his way of loving. But now, with her father labeled an *outsider*… She didn’t know what to do.
—I’ve left. Rented a flat near the Tube. Filed for divorce,— her mother announced one day.
She said it so casually, as if discussing a new set of curtains. The news stunned Emily, though she’d seen the cracks forming for years.
—He’s a decent man, on paper. But we just… never fit,— her mother confessed to a friend.
—You’re just nitpicking. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you—that’s something,— the friend dismissed.
—Is that all happiness is? No, Margaret. There has to be *something* between people. And what’s between us? Silence. Him at his computer, me knitting beside him just to be near. No outings, no conversations.
After the divorce, her mother blossomed. Joined a dance class, learned to use a computer, plunged into social media. Made a friend, Agatha, and started touring cities with her.
Sometimes, Emily caught herself envying her. Not because she had cause—just because her mother’s new life had no room for her… or her father.
Her father, though—his life had ended. The divorce left him in a cramped flat on the outskirts of London. The walls were bare, the air stale. Even the light seemed dimmer when Nicholas was in it.
Emily visited once a week. Cleaned, cooked, sat with him. At first, he resisted. Then he started drinking. Not binges, just enough to glaze his eyes and slur his words.
—She tossed me aside like an old glove,— he’d grumble.
—Dad, stop. No one *tossed* you. You just… grew apart.
—Grew apart? Look at her now. Social media’s plastered with her trips. And me? Nothing left.
It broke her. She didn’t know how to fix him—just knew she couldn’t walk away.
—You’ve got a savior complex,— Vadim snapped one night when she returned late and drained. —First your nan, then your mates. Kids are older, so now it’s your dad.
—He’s alone. It’s just me.
—He’s fifty-four! Not the first man to divorce. Healthy, free. Let him live!
—He’s drowning.
—And you’re his lifeboat? You’ll drown with him. And I’ll go down too if I let this continue. Stop. Going.
Her gaze turned sharp, but she stayed silent. She’d keep visiting. Openly or in secret—it didn’t matter.
The flat reeked of smoke, stale beer, and something sour. Nicholas stood in the doorway, his once-white vest straining over his belly, his smile tight and uneven. A few empty bottles cluttered the corner.
—Well, come in,— he rasped.
The sink held a few dishes—not many, but clearly untouched for days. A phone droned news updates from the table. Nicholas lit a cigarette, his hands trembling.
—You’ve been drinking,— she said quietly, already knowing.
—You think I don’t have reason?— He exhaled smoke. —Why d’you even come? To lecture me?
She swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d grown used to his barbs, even his ingratitude. But never to watching him disappear.
—I come because I *care*. I’m your daughter.
—Don’t kid yourself. You’re just easing your guilt. Think a hot meal’ll turn back time?
—I just don’t want to lose what’s left.
His eyes—hazy—cleared for a second. His lips moved. For a moment, she remembered being eight, scraping her knees on gravel. Him scooping her up, murmuring *it’ll be okay* as he cleaned her wounds.
Where was that man now?
She sat beside him. He only huffed.
—Want some soup? I brought chicken, potatoes, carrots.
—No pots. All gone.
—*All* of them? How?
—Dunno. Worn out, I guess.
She felt it then—if she pushed, he’d vanish completely. So she stood, left the groceries, and moved to the door.
—I’ll be back in a week. Just… be here. Alright?
—Where else would I go?
At home, she scrolled listings for kids’ bikes. Then an ad flashed: *Vintage Zenit camera. Still works. No longer needed.* Her heart lurched. *His* camera. The one he’d used for her graduation.
She wanted to vanish.
***
A year later, little had changed—except Nicholas sat on a park bench now, wrapped in a frayed coat, a bottle and a bag of groceries beside him. Bread, pasta, mayonnaise.
Emily visited less often. Maybe she saw no point. Maybe she was just tired.
A scruffy mutt limped past—thin, ears drooping. It sniffed, then sat. He meant to shoo it away… but tore off some bread instead.
—Here, stray. You alone too?
The dog stayed. Lay down, sighed, rested its head on its paws.
Nicholas remembered Rusty—his childhood dog who’d vanished one winter. His mum said he’d found new owners. Nicholas hadn’t eaten for days, waiting.
A week later, the mutt waited by his door. He named her Misty.
—Mist, where d’you think you’re going?— he’d grumble when she slipped into the hallway.
He never let her inside—just fed her, then shooed her off before the neighbors complained.
One evening, he stumbled outside. Minus ten, but he barely felt it. His head throbbed; his legs faltered. Then—the ground.
He’d have lain there longer if not for Misty. Barking, tugging his sleeve. Then a voice:
—You alive?
A neighbor. Later, Nicholas would only recall the crunch of snow, the man hoisting him up with a curse.
—Not a heart attack?
—Dunno. Blood pressure, maybe.
Neither mentioned the whiskey.
That night, Misty stayed.
***
Meanwhile, Vadim writhed in pain across town. A screw seemed twisting into his side. He paled, sweated, but lay still.
Emily woke to his tossing.
—We’re going to A&E. Now.
—It’ll pass.
—You want that on your tombstone? *He waited it out.* Move.
She called an ambulance. Gallstones. The doctor said a few more hours—peritonitis.
She kept vigil all night. Vadim stayed silent—awake, but wordless.
—Thanks,— he whispered at dawn.
—You’re welcome. Men. Too proud to admit you need help.
He frowned… but squeezed her hand.
***
A week later, Emily visited for his birthday. Nicholas walked Misty—now groomed, on a lead.
—Where’d you get her? Pedigree?— she teased.
He looked better too—new coat, clean-shaven.
—She found me. Maybe heaven sent her.
Emily smiled, handing him a gift bag.
—For you. You’ve got grandkids, you know.
The dog wagged its tail slowly, and for the first time in years, Nicholas felt something warm flicker in his chest like a half-forgotten memory—maybe, just maybe, this was enough. .
