Before stepping away forever…
Oliver stepped out of the station doors onto the platform, slightly swaying under the weight of a large gym bag with “Nike” printed across the shoulder strap. Sweat traced shimmering trails down his temples. He scanned the platform. A row of benches lined the station wall, packed with passengers and those waiting for arrivals. On one bench sat an old man in a grey trench coat and a fedora. Oliver walked toward him.
Approaching, Oliver dropped his burden onto the middle of the bench, fished a crumpled handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped his face. Only then did he sit, letting out a slow breath. A high-speed train roared past without stopping, hot air laced with the scent of iron and dust brushing Oliver’s cheeks, ruffling his cropped hair.
Oliver watched the train’s tapering lights vanish into the distance, then leaned back on the bench, resting a hand on his bag. The platform buzzed back to life as conversations resumed.
“—Intercity service to… now arriving… coaches numbered from the front—” crackled a woman’s voice through the speakers, cutting in and out.
“Did you catch which train?” the old man turned to ask.
Oliver shook his head and shrugged. The old man nodded and checked his wristwatch.
“Third announcement, still no sign of it,” he sighed. “Why do stations always mangle their announcements?”
Oliver stayed silent, unwilling to be drawn in.
“Off somewhere, are you? Looks like you’ve packed heavy,” the old man pressed.
“Sherlock Holmes over here,” Oliver snorted. “No luggage—so you’re waiting for someone. Same deduction.”
“Right you are. My son,” the old man said, pride creeping in.
“I’m leaving mine,” Oliver murmured before he could stop himself.
“Aye. Life.” The old man exhaled too. “Running, then. Can’t run from yourself, though. Your troubles come with you.” He jerked his chin toward the bag between them.
Oliver shot him a sour glance and turned away.
“I did the same forty years back. My boy was eleven. Haven’t seen him since. Nervous, truth be told.”
His calm voice belied the words.
“Doesn’t show,” Oliver muttered, hoping he wouldn’t be heard.
“Nervous,” the man repeated. “At my age, emotions are rationed. Any one—joy, grief—could finish you, son.”
“He live abroad or something?” Oliver grasped at the chance to shift focus from himself.
He hadn’t planned this. Just a throwaway remark from his wife, Emma, about him staying out late, and suddenly they were shouting—accusations flying. Then she’d accused him of cheating, out of nowhere. As they say, words aren’t sparrows—once flown, you can’t catch them.
He should’ve laughed it off. Instead, he’d grabbed his bag, shoved whatever was nearest inside, slammed the door, and bolted to the station. Only now, hearing the old man speak of his son, did Oliver think of Harry.
The old man’s voice pulled him back.
“My wife—practical woman. Not a beauty, but solid. Never thought I’d be the sort to walk out on her and my boy. Yet here we are.”
Oliver realized this was more than small talk—he was being told something vital.
“Hernia flared up. Had it for years. But this time—pain like fire in my groin. Emma sent me to hospital. Took one look at me, straight to surgery.”
“Woke up groggy, and there she was. All in white, eyes blue as heaven. Like an angel. Name to match—Evangeline. Came with a syringe. Just a jab, but when her fingers brushed me—something snapped. Didn’t even feel the needle. Fell hard. Night before discharge, I lay awake scheming how to stay. Thought of breaking my own leg.”
“Confessed my love as they discharged me. Expected her to recoil. She gave me her number. Two days later, I called—Emma at work. Met her outside the hospital with flowers. Walked her home. Handsome devil back then. Wasn’t love, just madness. Nearly ended it, then she got pregnant.”
“What could I do? My boy grown, this one fatherless? Went home, told Emma everything. She wept—course she did. Like you, packed a bag. Left for Evangeline. Smaller bag, mind.”
“Divorced Emma. Never married Evangeline. Something went wrong in childbirth. She died. Her parents blamed me—I did too. If not for the pregnancy, she’d be alive. That’s fate. They took the baby girl. Never even let me see her.”
“You said you never saw your son again. She didn’t forgive?” Oliver asked.
“Forgive that? Blamed myself. Wanted to die. Judged every man who couldn’t keep it in his trousers. Then I…” The old man waved a hand. “Went north. Hoped the cold’d finish me. Imagined Emma weeping at my grave. But frost, whiskey, gales—none took me. Sent most wages to her and the boy. No use to me.”
“She sent it all back. That was Emma. Once tucked a note with it—remarried. Saved up, bought a flat in Leeds. Never searched for my son. Too ashamed. He found me. Wrote last month—Emma’s gone…”
The speakers screeched. The garbled voice announced another arrival.
This time, a train actually stopped. Passengers spilled out, melted into the station. The old man stood, neck craned like a goose. No one looked his way. The train left. He sank back onto the bench, lost.
“Maybe the next one?” Oliver offered.
He’d forgotten why he was here, until the speakers coughed and declared his train now at platform two. Clear for once.
“That’s mine,” Oliver said.
Suddenly, the old man stiffened. Oliver followed his gaze—a man nearing fifty approached their bench, a stout woman beside him. They halted a few steps away. The old man rose slowly, removed his hat, wrung it, then replaced it. The train drowned out the man’s words, but Oliver lip-read: *Father.*
Passengers boarded. The man stepped closer. They stood frozen, staring. Oliver knew he didn’t belong here. He stood, heaved his bag onto his shoulder, and walked toward his train.
A young attendant waited by the door. “Boarding or not? We leave soon.”
A flustered man wheezed up, asking for his coach. Oliver almost thanked him for the distraction. Adjusting his bag, he turned and walked away. At the station doors, he fished out his ticket, stared blankly a moment, then crushed it into a bin.
Shoving through the crowd—ignoring curses thrown his way—he burst onto the street. Taxi drivers clamored for fares. Oliver took the first cab.
“Just got in? Rushing home to the missus?”
“Yeah. Hurry.”
“Five minutes, you’ll be holding her.” The driver laughed, then quieted at Oliver’s glare.
Oliver took the stairs two at a time, barely feeling the bag digging into his shoulder. He slid his keys back into his pocket and rang the bell. Harry opened the door.
“Dad?! Mum, Dad’s back!”
Before Oliver could step inside, Harry threw his arms around him.
Emma appeared, eyes red.
“Sorry,” Oliver choked out. That was all.
She buried her face in his chest.
