A Hero’s Father
Emma climbed the stairs to her third-floor flat, counting steps as she carried a bag of shopping. Just like she used to do with her son, back when they walked home from nursery. Daniel used to repeat after her, and within months, he was counting on his own. “He grew up so fast. Please, just let him come home safe…” she whispered like a prayer.
Above her, a door slammed, and quick footsteps echoed down the stairs. Emma paused on the landing between floors, moving aside.
“Hello, Mrs. Thompson!” called Sophie, the fourteen-year-old from next door, grinning as she hurried past.
“Sophie, wait! You forgot your hat!” her mother shouted from above.
The girl sighed, turning back. “It’s warm out. You’re always nagging me about hats,” she muttered.
Her mother hurried down, shoving a knitted beanie into Sophie’s hands. “It’ll be cold later. Don’t hang about after dance class, understand? Straight home.”
“Fine.” Sophie snatched the hat and dashed off.
“Not ‘fine’—put it on!” her mother yelled after her.
“Hello, Emma. Just back from work? This one’s always trying to sneak off without a coat. Then she’s sniffling for days,” the neighbour huffed.
They climbed the stairs together. Emma tried to return to counting steps, but the neighbour interrupted.
“Any word from Daniel?”
“No,” Emma sighed.
“You raise them, you raise them, then they grow up and leave—and all we do is worry. Sons are one thing, but daughters? Worse. Never know where they are or who they’re with. Sophie only cares about her dancing.”
Emma stopped at her door, fumbling for her keys while the neighbour disappeared inside her own flat. Stepping into the hallway, she glanced at the coat rack—hoping, like every day, to see Daniel’s jacket there. Only her own lightweight coat hung limp.
She set the shopping bag on the shoe rack and began undoing her scarf. Once, Daniel would rush to greet her, spilling the day’s news before she could even take off her coat. “Wait, let me breathe,” she’d sigh. “Don’t touch the bag—it’s heavy.”
Then he grew older. She’d call for him instead, asking him to carry the shopping to the kitchen while quizzing him about school.
“It’s fine,” he’d brush off, dumping the bag and retreating to his room.
Then came university. Most evenings, she’d return to an empty flat. He shared less and less.
“Maybe I should get a cat,” she murmured. “Something to greet me at least…” She’d think it, then forget. A quick meal, then the news—her nightly ritual.
She scanned the screen, searching faces in identical camouflaged uniforms. They all looked the same—half-hidden, weary-eyed, but staring straight ahead. Alive. Maybe one was Daniel. She’d know if she saw him.
**Four months earlier**
“Daniel, you home?” she called, stepping inside.
“Yeah.” He shuffled out of his room.
“You’re back early.” Emma moved past him into the kitchen. “Hungry?” She started unpacking groceries while he slumped into a chair.
“Something happen?” She froze, a tub of yoghurt in hand, studying his frown.
“I’m fine, Mum.”
But his tight expression said otherwise. She put the yoghurt away, folded the empty bag, and tucked it under the sink.
“I’ll make pancakes tomorrow,” she said, still watching him.
“Sit.” He nodded at the chair.
Emma obeyed, her pulse quickening.
“You’re scaring me. What is it? Found a girl?”
“Mum… I’m joining up.”
Her breath caught. “Wh—what? Just like that? You’ve never even done National Service—”
“Not right away. I didn’t tell you. Training first, then—”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’ve just graduated, got a good job. What about me? You’d just—leave? Why?”
“Because there’s a war on. I can’t sit this out. I’m fit, I’m smart—”
“You’re a boy. Twenty-three isn’t—”
His steely gaze silenced her. Tears blurred her vision, his face swimming before her. She blinked them away.
“When?” A fat drop rolled down her cheek.
“Tomorrow. I’m sorry, Mum. I have to go.”
She lunged forward, gripping him.
“Let go,” he said, peeling her hands away.
Later, calmer, they talked for hours. Daniel pressed the question she’d dreaded.
“Remember when I asked about Dad?”
“You were five.”
“What did you tell me?”
Her throat tightened. She’d spun a tale—his father, a soldier, died a hero.
Of course she remembered. What else could she say? That she’d been young, foolish, in love—and when she told his father about the pregnancy, he’d panicked.
“Students, two years left at uni—”
She knew he was right, but couldn’t bring herself to end it. Then her mother intervened—shouting, weeping, but refusing to let her terminate. Emma would thank her later.
Richard walked out. “Your choice, your life,” he’d said.
The months after Daniel’s birth were agony—no help, her mother working, no money. She’d waited, hoping Richard would return, apologise, stay. Instead, nothing.
When Daniel asked about his father, how could she say, “He was a coward who abandoned us”? So she invented the hero.
And now, this war.
That night before he left, Daniel asked quietly, “Was it true? About Dad?”
Her heart stopped. She couldn’t tell him now.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You should be proud.”
He exhaled, relieved.
For months, silence. Then a call: “Mum, I’m coming home.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
She scrubbed the flat, stocked the fridge, but still jumped when the doorbell rang.
And there he stood—older, harder—his smile the same. She lunged forward, sobbing. Only then did she notice the crutch.
“You’re hurt?”
“It’s nothing. Mum, this is Richard. We served together.”
She froze. *Richard.*
Then it hit her.
This man—his father—had known exactly where he was coming.
“Hello,” Richard said.
No shock in his voice. No surprise. Just quiet shame.
Her pulse roared. How dare he?
“He saved me,” Daniel was saying. “Carried me two miles…”
The words barely registered. *Saved him?*
She cooked for them, dug out clothes—they were the same height now—and sent Daniel to shower first.
In the kitchen, Richard spoke first.
“I’m sorry. I’ve regretted it every day.”
“When did you know?” Her voice was ice.
“In hospital. He showed me your photo, talked about you. He’s a good man. I didn’t tell him who I was. Then he invited me here. I almost refused—”
“Of course you didn’t.”
He flinched. “My wife left before the war. My daughter—her stepdad says I’m not her father. When the fighting started, I volunteered. Nothing left to lose.”
She wanted to scream. But this man had saved her son.
“Why did you tell him I was a hero?”
“Would you rather he knew the truth?”
“I was young, stupid—”
“Still are, apparently.”
Daniel returned, damp-haired, grinning. Richard slipped away to shower.
“Missed you,” Daniel said, hugging her.
“You’re really all right? You’re not going back?”
“Not yet. Got to heal first.”
She put Richard in Daniel’s bed that night. Next morning, he lingered awkwardly.
“Going somewhere?”
“My aunt’s. Visit my parents’ graves. Didn’t want to intrude.”
“And after?”
“Back to the front. No reason to stay.”
“You think Daniel won’t follow? Selfish. You’ve got a daughter—I’ve only got him.”
His face crumpled. “I won’t drag him back.”
But when Daniel came home to find Richard gone, he turned on her.
“How could you? He’s got no one!”
She watched from the window as Daniel chased after him.
Dusk fell. Then—footsteps.
Two figures, one limping. Her heart leapt.
Now what?
She didn’t know. But for the first time in years, the heavy knot in her chest loosened.
Supper needed reheating. She turned away from the window.
Whatever came next, they’d face it—together.
