**The Hero Father**
Emma climbed the stairs to her third-floor flat, clutching a bag of groceries and counting each step under her breath. Just like she used to do with her son when they walked home from nursery. Ben used to repeat the numbers after her, and within months, he could count on his own. *”How fast he grew. God, just let him come back. Just let him be alive…”* The thought echoed in her mind like a prayer.
A door slammed above, and the rapid patter of hurried footsteps echoed through the stairwell. Emma paused on the landing between floors, stepping aside.
“Hello,” chirped fourteen-year-old Lily, their neighbor, as she brushed past.
“Lily, wait! You forgot your hat!” her mother called from above.
The girl huffed and trudged back.
“It’s warm. You’re always nagging me about the hat,” she muttered under her breath.
Her mother hurried down and shoved a knitted cap into her hands.
“It’ll be cold tonight. Don’t stay out late, hear me? Straight home after dance class.”
“Fine.” Lily stuffed the hat into her pocket and dashed off.
“Not fine—*put it on*!” her mother shouted after her.
“Hello, Emma. Back from work? Honestly, this one’s a terror—always sneaking off without a coat, then sniffling for days,” the neighbor sighed.
They climbed the stairs together. Emma resumed counting steps, but the woman interrupted.
“Any word from your son?”
“No,” Emma exhaled.
“Raising kids—you give them everything, then they grow up and leave, and all we do is wait and worry. A son’s bad enough, but a daughter? At least all Lily cares about is dancing. Boys, though… who knows where they end up?”
Emma stopped at her door. As she fumbled for her keys, the neighbor disappeared behind hers. Stepping into the hallway, Emma’s eyes darted to the coat rack. Every day, she half-expected to see Ben’s jacket hanging there. But only her light spring coat swayed emptily.
She dropped the bag onto the shoe rack and began peeling off her layers. Years ago, Ben would race to greet her, words tumbling out before she could even take off her shoes.
“Wait, let me breathe,” she’d laugh. “Don’t touch the bag—it’s heavy.”
As he got older, she’d call for him instead, asking him to carry the groceries to the kitchen while she prodded about school.
“Fine,” he’d mumble, vanishing as soon as the bag hit the counter.
Then university. Now, coming home to an empty flat was the norm. Rarely did he share his life with her anymore.
“Maybe I should get a cat,” Emma sighed. Something to welcome her home. But the thought always dissolved by dinnertime. She’d eat quickly, then sink onto the sofa, eyes glued to the news—searching for glimpses of men in identical multicolored uniforms. Half their faces were covered, but their eyes—exhausted, steady, desperate—stared back at the camera. She’d know Ben instantly. She had to believe that.
**Four months earlier**
“Ben? You home?” she called, stepping inside.
“Yeah.” He shuffled out of his room.
“You’re back early.” She carried the groceries to the kitchen. He followed, slumping into a chair at the table.
“Hungry?” She unpacked the bag, shoving milk into the fridge, cereal into the cupboard.
“You’re quiet. What’s wrong?” She froze, a tub of yogurt in hand.
“Nothing. I’m fine, Mum.”
But his expression betrayed him. She shut the fridge, folded the empty bag, and slid it away.
“I’ll make pancakes tomorrow,” she said, watching him carefully.
“Sit.” He nodded at the chair. Her heart clenched as she obeyed.
“You’re scaring me. What’s going on? Found a girlfriend?”
“Mum… I’m enlisting.”
“W-what?” The word caught like a stumble. “Just like that? You’ve never even done service—”
“Not immediately. I kept it quiet. Boot camp first, then…”
“No.” She shook her head violently. “You just graduated, you’ve got a good job—what about *me*? Have you thought about me? You’re all I have!”
“There’s a war on, Mum. I can’t sit back. I’m strong, healthy—my degree’s useful.”
“You’re a *boy*. Twenty-three—”
His firm stare silenced her. Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
She lunged forward, clinging to him.
“I won’t let you—”
“I’ve made my choice.” He pried her arms loose.
Later, calmer, they talked for hours. He tried to explain.
“Remember when I asked about my dad?”
“You were five.”
“What did you tell me?”
She shook her head, though she remembered.
“You said he was military. A hero. Died in some covert op.”
Of course she remembered. What else could she say? That she’d fallen for a coward? A boy who panicked when she told him she was pregnant, who begged her to “sort it out.” They were students—two more years of uni.
Logically, he was right. But she couldn’t do it. When her mother found out, she’d raged, wept—then forbid the abortion. For that, Emma was grateful. Later.
Daniel had said if she wouldn’t listen, she was on her own. He wasn’t ready to be a father. So they split. She took Ben, raised him alone while her mother worked. Those early years—tears, exhaustion, fights.
And when Ben asked about his father, how could she say he’d run? That he’d never cared to meet his son? So she spun the lie. A hero. A warrior. No details needed—the operation was classified.
She never imagined this war. Never thought Ben would believe the lie so completely that he’d *follow* it.
That last night, he didn’t speak of honor or duty. Just one question:
“It’s true? About Dad?”
Her breath stalled. She couldn’t break him now.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You should be proud.”
His relief was palpable.
She let him go.
Months of silence followed. One call—he was shipping out. He loved her. He’d return. Then nothing.
If she’d known, she’d have said his father was a cop. A firefighter. Anything but *this*.
She scrubbed the flat spotless, stocked the fridge. Still, the knock startled her. The man at the door wasn’t her boy. He was harder. Older. She threw her arms around him, weeping. Only then did she notice the crutch.
“You’re hurt?”
“Nothing serious.” He gestured behind him. “Mum, this is Daniel. We served together.”
Her blood ran cold. *Daniel.* She knew before she even looked. And *he* didn’t seem surprised.
“Hello,” he said softly.
Her anger flared. How dare he come back now?
“He saved me,” Ben was saying. “Carried me two miles under fire. We were in hospital together—”
She barely heard. *Saved him?*
She fed them, dug out old clothes (they were the same size), and let Ben shower first.
In the kitchen, Daniel spoke first.
“I’m sorry. I’ve regretted what I did every day.”
“When did you know?” she asked icily.
“Hospital. He showed me your photo. Talked about you. I didn’t tell him. How could I? When he asked me to come here, I almost refused. But… I’ve got no one else. My wife left before the war. My daughter—her stepdad’s her ‘real’ father now. I had nothing to lose. So I enlisted.”
She listened, fury simmering. But this man had saved her son.
“Why did you tell him I was a hero?”
“Would you rather he knew the truth? That his father was a coward?”
“I was young. Scared—”
“Nothing’s changed,” she spat.
Ben returned, cutting them off.
“Mum, I missed you,” he murmured, hugging her as Daniel slipped past to shower.
“You’re really okay? You’re not going back?”
“Not yet. Need to heal first.”
She made up the spare room for Daniel. The next morning, he dressed awkwardly.
“Going to visit my aunt. Pay respects to my parents. Don’t want to bother you.”
“And then?”
“Back to the front. Nothing for me here.”
“You realize he’ll follow you? You’ve got a daughter—somewhere. I have *no one* but him. I always knew you’d take him from me.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“He’s a man now, but he still needs a father. Maybe he sensed it—why else would he bring you? Will you drag him to his death? You’And as she watched from the window—Ben limping beside Daniel through the fading light—Emma exhaled, letting go of the past and stepping toward the stove to stir the soup, knowing that whatever came next, they would face it together.
