The Hero Father
Emily climbed the stairs to her third-floor flat with a bag of shopping, counting each step under her breath. It reminded her of when her little boy, William, used to copy her as they walked home from nursery. He’d stumble over the numbers at first, then within months, he was rattling them off like a pro. “They grow up so fast. God, just bring him back, just let him be alive…” she whispered it like a prayer, the same one she’d repeated every day.
Above her, a door slammed, and quick footsteps clattered down the steps. Emily paused on the landing between the second and third floor, shifting to the side.
“Hi, Mrs. Thompson!” chirped Alice, their fourteen-year-old neighbour.
“Alice! Wait—you forgot your beanie!” her mum called from above.
The girl groaned, trudging back up.
“It’s warm out. You’re obsessed with that thing,” she muttered.
Her mother hurried down, thrusting a knitted beanie into her hands.
“It’s chilly in the evenings. Straight home after dance, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Alice snatched the beanie and dashed off.
“Not ‘yeah’—put it on!” her mum shouted after her.
“Hello, Emily. Just back from work? Honestly, that girl—always trying to sneak out without a coat, then she’s sniffling for weeks,” the neighbour sighed as they climbed the stairs together.
Emily tried to return to counting steps, but the woman cut in.
“How’s William? Heard from him?”
“No,” Emily exhaled.
“We raise them, don’t we? Then they grow up and leave, and all we can do is wait and worry. A mother’s heart never rests. Scary enough with a son, but a daughter? At least boys don’t vanish into God knows what. That one’s only got dancing on her mind.”
Emily stopped at her door. As she fumbled for her keys, the neighbour disappeared behind hers. The flat was silent, just the hum of the fridge. Her eyes flicked to the coat rack—still just her spring jacket dangling there. Every day, she half-expected to see William’s coat beside it.
She dropped the shopping bag onto the shoe bench and began peeling off her layers. Years ago, William would rush to greet her, babbling about his day before she’d even put her bag down.
“Hang on, love, let me get my coat off first,” she’d laugh. “Don’t touch the bag—it’s heavy.”
Later, he grew taller, quieter. She’d call for him when she got home, ask him to carry the shopping to the kitchen, probe about school.
“Fine,” he’d shrug, dumping the bag on the counter before vanishing into his room.
Then came university, and most evenings, the flat stayed empty. Less and less, he shared anything with her.
“Maybe a cat,” she’d think sometimes, staring at the silent telly. Something alive to greet her. But the thought always slipped away. She’d nibble toast, flick through the news, scanning the faces of men in identical fatigues. Half-hidden behind helmets, eyes tired but steady, staring into the camera as if willing their families to recognise them. One of them could be William. She’d know him instantly.
—Four Months Earlier—
“William? You home?” Emily called, toeing off her shoes.
“Yeah.” He shuffled out of his room.
“You’re back early—” She carried the shopping to the kitchen. He trailed after her. “Hungry?” She started unpacking. He sank into a chair.
“Something wrong?” She froze, a tub of yogurt in hand.
“Fit as a fiddle. All good, Mum.”
But his tight expression said otherwise. She put the yogurt away, folded the empty bag.
“I’ll make pancakes tomorrow,” she said, studying him.
“Sit.” He nodded at the chair. Her stomach dropped as she obeyed.
“You’re scaring me. What’s happened? Found yourself a girlfriend?”
“Mum. I’ve enlisted.”
“Wh-what?” The word caught in her throat. “Just like that? You never did national service—”
“Not straight away. Didn’t want to worry you. Training first, then—”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’ve just graduated, got a good job… What about me? Did you even think—? You’re all I have. You can’t do this. Why?”
“There’s a war on, Mum. I can’t sit it out. I’m fit, strong, my degree’s useful—”
“You’re a boy. Twenty-three—”
His gaze hardened. She bit her lip. Tears blurred her vision, his face swimming before her.
“When?” The first drop rolled down her cheek.
“Tomorrow. I’m sorry, but I can’t let others go while I—”
She grabbed him, crushed him against her. “I won’t let you—”
“Mum. My decision.” He pried her arms loose.
Later, calmer, they talked for hours. He kept circling back to one thing.
“Remember when I asked about Dad? When I was little?”
“You were five,” she said softly.
“You told me he was military. A hero. Died in some operation.”
Of course she remembered. What else could she say? That she’d fallen for a boy at uni, that when she’d told him about the baby, he’d panicked, begged her to terminate? “We’ve got years of studying left—”
Logically, he’d been right. But she’d stalled, unable to decide. Then her mother found out—shouting, tears, but no talk of clinics. For that, she’d always be grateful. Later.
Mark had said if she wouldn’t listen to sense, she could raise the kid alone. He wasn’t ready to be a father. They’d split. She’d taken a year off uni, her mother helping with the baby.
Those first months were hell. Fights with Mum, nights sobbing into William’s crib. She’d waited, stupidly, for Mark to turn up, apologise, stay. Eventually, everything settled.
What was she supposed to tell a little boy asking about his dad? That his father was a coward? That he’d bolted before William was born? Never even visited? So she’d spun the hero story—let him write school essays about his brave father. A secret mission required no details.
How could she have known there’d be another war? After the last one, everyone swore nothing like it would ever happen again.
That last night before he left, William didn’t spout noble rubbish about following in his father’s footsteps. He’d just asked, quietly:
“Was it true? About Dad?”
Her breath had stuck. She couldn’t tell him now.
“Yes,” she’d said. “You should be proud of him.”
She’d almost heard his relieved exhale.
Then he was gone. First, silence. Then a rushed call—he was being deployed, loved her, would come back. The waiting began.
If she’d known, she’d have picked a different lie—a police officer, maybe. Killed apprehending a criminal. Anything but this. She’d just wanted William to feel whole. Mark was probably married now, kids of his own, clueless his son worshipped a ghost.
When William started school, Emily took a job at a mostly female office. Women like to talk—birthdays, holidays, whose husband forgot their anniversary.
After one Mother’s Day lunch, they’d gone round the table sharing how they’d celebrated. Emily usually stayed quiet. But when her turn came, the words tumbled out—William’s father, the heroic soldier. For a moment, she’d almost believed it herself. Easier than admitting she’d loved a man who’d run.
Let him believe he’d had a good father.
—
Days bled into weeks. Then, a call—William was coming home.
“When?” was all she could manage.
“Soon, Mum.”
Alive. Coming home. That was enough.
She scrubbed the flat, stocked the fridge. Still, the doorbell startled her. The man on the doorstep was a stranger—taller, harder. Then he smiled, and she was clinging to him, tears smudging her glasses. Only when she pulled back did she see the crutch.
“You’re hurt?”
“It’s nothing. Healing fine. Mum, this is Mark. We served together.”
She looked past him. The name took a second to register. Then ice slid down her spine.
“Hello,” Mark said.
He didn’t seem surprised. He’d known. Rage flared—how dare he show up now?
“He dragged me two miles under fire. We were in hospital together—” William’s voice faded. Saved him? Brought him home? One thing was clear—William didn’t know.
She fed them, found spare clothes (they were the same size now). William showered first.
In the kitchen, Mark spoke to her back.
“I’m sorry. I’ve hated myself for years—”
“WhenWhen William returned with Mark that evening, Emily set the table for three, knowing the truth would come out in time, but for now, they were all finally home.
