Hero Father
Emily trudged up the stairs to the third floor with a bag of groceries, quietly counting each step. She used to do the same with her son when they walked home from nursery. Oliver would mimic her, and within months, he was counting on his own. “He grew up so fast. God, just let him come back, just let him be alive…” she repeated to herself like a mantra.
A door slammed above, followed by hurried footsteps. Emily paused on the landing between the second and third floors and stepped aside.
“Hello!” chirped fourteen-year-old Lucy, their neighbour.
“Lucy, wait! You forgot your hat!” her mother called from above.
The girl huffed but turned back.
“It’s warm. You’re always on about hats,” she muttered under her breath.
Her mother rushed down and shoved a knitted hat into her hands.
“It’ll be cold tonight. Don’t stay out late, alright? Straight home after dance class.”
“Fine,” Lucy sighed, taking the hat and darting downstairs.
“Not ‘fine’—put it on!” her mother called after her.
“Hello, Emily. Just back from work? That scamp of mine would rather freeze than wear a hat, then wonder why she’s sniffling,” the neighbour grumbled.
They climbed the stairs together. Emily tried to resume counting, but her neighbour cut in.
“How’s your son? Any news?”
“No,” Emily sighed.
“That’s the way of it, isn’t it? Raise them, love them, then they grow up and leave. All we can do is wait and worry. Scary enough with a son, but a daughter? Worse. Always wondering where she is, who she’s with. Mine? All she cares about is dancing.”
Emily stopped at her flat. While she fished for her keys, the neighbour disappeared behind her own door. Inside, Emily’s eyes flicked to the coat rack. Every day, she hoped to see Oliver’s jacket hanging there. But only her light spring coat dangled limply.
She set the groceries on the shoe bench and began peeling off her coat. Back when Oliver was little, he’d rush to greet her, bursting with news.
“Hold on, let me get changed,” she’d sigh. “Don’t touch the bag—it’s heavy.”
As he grew older, she’d call for him when she got home, asking him to carry the groceries to the kitchen while she pried about school.
“Everything’s fine,” he’d brush her off, dump the bag, then vanish into his room.
Then came university. Most evenings, she returned to an empty flat. He shared less and less.
“Maybe I should get a cat. At least something would greet me,” Emily thought, exhaling. She considered it every night, then forgot by morning. She’d eat a rushed meal and flick on the news, scanning the faces of men in identical multi-coloured uniforms. Half-hidden behind helmets, their eyes were all different, yet all the same—tired, steady, hopeful. Family would recognise them, know they were alive. One might be Oliver. She’d know him instantly.
Four months earlier
“Oliver, you home?” she’d called, stepping inside.
“Yeah.” He shuffled out of his room.
“You’re back early.” She carried the groceries to the kitchen; he trailed behind. “Hungry?” She unpacked the bag, stuffing items into cupboards while Oliver slumped at the table.
“Why so quiet? What’s wrong?” She froze, a tub of cottage cheese in hand.
“Fit as a fiddle. Everything’s fine, Mum.”
But his expression unsettled her. She stowed the tub, folded the empty bag, and tucked it away.
“I’ll make pancakes for breakfast,” she said, studying him.
“Sit.” He nodded at the chair. She obeyed, but dread coiled in her chest.
“You’re scaring me. What’s happened? Were you sacked?”
“Mum, I’ve enlisted.”
“W-what?” The word stumbled out. “Just like that? You’ve never even served—”
“Not straight away. I just didn’t tell you. Training first, then—”
“No.” She shook her head violently. “You just graduated, got a good job… And what about me? Did you think of me? You’re all I— You can’t do this. Why?”
“There’s a war on, Mum. I can’t sit it out. I’m strong, healthy, my degree’s useful.”
“You’re not a man, you’re a boy. Twenty-three—”
His firm stare silenced her. Tears blurred her vision; his face swam. She blinked them away.
“When?” Fat drops rolled down her cheeks.
“Tomorrow. Mum, I’m sorry, but I can’t let others go while I—”
She lurched forward, crushing him to her.
“I won’t let you—”
“Mum, my mind’s made up.” He pried her arms loose.
Later, calmer, they talked. Oliver tried explaining.
“Remember when I asked about Dad?”
“You were five,” she murmured.
“Remember what you told me?”
She shook her head.
“You said he was military. A hero. Died on some secret op.”
Of course she remembered. What else could she say? That she’d fallen blindly in love, that when she told the father about the pregnancy, he panicked, begged for an abortion. They’d been students, years left to study.
Logically, he was right. But she hesitated, couldn’t bring herself. When her mother found out, there were tears, shouting—but no abortion. For that, she’d been grateful. Later.
Michael had said if she decided alone, she could live with it alone. He wasn’t ready—not for marriage, not for fatherhood. So they split. She took maternity leave. Her mother worked; childcare was impossible.
Those months were agony. She’d waited, hoped Michael would return, apologise, stay. Fought with her mother, traded blame. Somehow, life stabilised.
When Oliver asked about his father, what could she say? That he’d been a coward? Abandoned them, never once visited? Vanished? No. So she spun a tale of a heroic father—something to shield him from pity.
She thought, when he grew up, he’d piece it together. But he believed. Wrote school essays about his brave dad. No details were needed—military ops were confidential.
Who could’ve guessed war would erupt? After the last bloody conflict, such horrors seemed unthinkable.
That night before he left, Oliver didn’t spout noble speeches about emulating his father. He asked:
“Was it true? About Dad?”
She stiffened. Now wasn’t the time for truth.
“Yes,” she’d said. “You should be proud of him.”
And he’d exhaled—relieved, she thought.
She let him go. Silence followed. Eventually, a call: he was being deployed, loved her, would return. Then the endless waiting.
If only she’d said his father was a policeman, killed apprehending a criminal. Anything. She just wanted Oliver to feel whole. Michael was a regret—remarried now, with kids. Oblivious his son idolised him.
When Oliver started school, Emily found work. The office was mostly women—chatty, tea-fuelled gossip sessions. After one International Women’s Day, they shared holiday stories—gifts from husbands, complaints.
Everyone knew Emily was single. She spoke only of Oliver, her eyes alight. That day, stung by their chatter, she invented the heroic father tale—first to them, then to Oliver. Briefly, she almost believed it. Easier than admitting she’d loved a coward, doomed her son to fatherlessness.
Let him believe.
Days bled into weeks. One call: Oliver was safe, coming home soon.
“When?” was all she managed.
“Soon.”
Alive. That was enough. She scrubbed the flat, stocked the fridge. Still, the doorbell startled her. The man who entered was a stranger—older, harder. Her little boy gone. She clung to him, weeping. Only then did she notice the figure behind him.
“You’re hurt?” she gasped, spotting the crutch.
“Just a scratch. Healing fine. Mum, this is Michael. We served together.”
She stared at the man shifting awkwardly. Michael. Realisation dawned—panic followed.
“Hello,” he said.
His tone confirmed it: he knew where he was. Rage swelled. How dare he? After all these years?
“He saved me,” Oliver was saying. “Carried me two miles. We were hospitalised together—” The words barely registered. Saved him? Dragged him out? One thing was clear: Oliver didn’t know this was his father.
She fed them, dug out extra towels and clothes. They were the same size—Oliver’s wardrobe full of loose tees and joggers. Oliver showered first.
Emily fled to the kitchen, scrubbing dishes.
“I’m sorry.” His voice startled her. “I’ve hated myself for what I did.”
“When did you know?” she askedAs she watched Oliver limp across the courtyard with Michael by his side, a quiet hope stirred in her heart—perhaps, after all this time, they could finally be a family.
