“For Four Generations, the Men in Our Family Worked on the Railways! So What Have YOU Brought?” — “Emily,” Anna Whispered, Stroking Her Bump. “We’ll Name Her Emily.” — “Another Girl? Is This Some Kind of Joke?” A Heartfelt Story of Fatherhood, Tradition, and Realising What Truly Matters

Author Emily TaylorReading 9 minViews 1

Four generations of men in our family have worked for the railway! And what have you brought us? Johns mum scoffed, tossing the ultrasound result onto the table.

Anna gently stroked her stomach and replied in a small voice, “A little girl, Mum. We’re going to name her Emily.”

Emily Jean repeated slowly. Well, at least the names decent. But whats she going to bring to the table? Who will ever want your Emily?

John said nothing, glued to his phone. When Anna asked for his thoughts, he just shrugged, It is what it is. Maybe next time it’ll be a boy.

A cold tightness gripped Annas heart. Next time? As if this baby was just a test run?

Emily arrived in January, all tiny, with huge eyes and a mop of dark hair. John showed up just for the homecoming, brought carnations and a carrier bag stuffed with baby clothes.

Shes pretty, he said, peering carefully into the pram. Looks like you, you know.

Shes got your nose, though, Anna smiled, and your stubborn chin.

Oh, dont start, John dismissed it, all babies look the same at this age.

Jean met them at home with a face like thunder.

Valerie from next door asked if it was a grandson or granddaughter, she grumbled, Bloody embarrassing to answer, I can tell you. At my age, looking after dolls

Anna shut herself in the nursery and wept, pressing her baby close.

John started working more. Picked up shifts on other routes, even the odd job here and there. Claimed families were costly, especially with a baby around. Hed come in late, tired and mostly silent.

She waits for you, you know, Anna would say as he passed the nursery, not once glancing inside. Emily lights up when she hears your footsteps.

Im exhausted, Anna. Early shift tomorrow.

But you havent even said hello to her

Shes a baby, Anna. She wont remember.

But Anna saw the way Emily turned her little head towards the door at Johns footsteps, and how her eyes lingered on the emptiness once he walked away.

At eight months old, Emily fell ill. It began with a fever first 100, then 102. Anna called NHS 111, and the nurse said to keep giving her paracetamol at home. By morning, it was up to 104.

John, get up! Anna shook him awake. Emilys really not well!

What time is it? he mumbled, barely opening his eyes.

Seven. I havent slept all night. We need to get her to hospital!

This early? Cant we wait till later? Ive got an important shift

Anna stared at him like he was a stranger.

Your daughter is burning up and youre worried about your shift?

Shes not dying, Anna! Kids get sick.

Anna called a taxi on her own.

At the hospital, Emily was taken straight to the paediatric ward. They suspected something serious and needed a lumbar puncture.

Wheres the childs father? the consultant asked. Well need both parents consent for this procedure.

He hes at work. Hell come soon, Anna lied.

She rang John all day but his phone was off. Finally, he picked up at 7 in the evening.

Anna, Im in the depot, busy

John, Emilys got suspected meningitis! They need your consent for a lumbar puncture! The doctors are waiting!

What? Puncture? I dont really

Just come! Now!

Cant. My shift is till eleven and then I promised Id help out the lads

Anna hung up on him.

She signed the consent forms herself. She had the right as Emilys mother. They did the puncture under general anaesthetic. Emily looked so impossibly small on that big hospital trolley.

Well have results tomorrow, the doctor told her, If its meningitis, this wont be a quick fix. Shell need to stay at least six weeks.

Anna stayed overnight at the hospital, watching her pale girls chest rise and fall under the drip.

John finally turned up the next day at lunchtime. He hadnt shaved and clearly hadnt slept.

Hows how is she? he asked, hovering outside the bay.

Shes not well, Anna replied simply. We dont have the test results yet.

Whatd they do to her? That thing

Lumbar puncture. They took some fluid from her spine to check for meningitis.

John turned white.

Did it hurt her?

She was asleep. She didnt feel a thing.

He stepped closer to the cot and froze. Emily slept, a little hand visible above the blanket, a cannula taped to her wrist.

Shes so tiny, John whispered. I never thought

Anna said nothing.

The results came back good no meningitis, just a nasty viral infection with complications. She could recover at home with GP visits.

You were lucky, the consultant said. A day or two longer, and it couldve gone much worse.

John was silent on the drive back. Just as they pulled up outside, he asked quietly:

Am I really that rubbish? As a dad?

Anna shifted sleeping Emily into her arms and looked him in the eye.

What do you think?

I thought I had more time. That she was too small to notice anything. But when I saw her there, tubes and all I realised I could lose her. And that I actually have someone to lose.

John, she needs her dad. Not just someone to pay the bills. A dad who knows her name. Knows which toys she likes best.

Which ones? he said, barely above a whisper.

Her rubber hedgehog and the rattle with bells. Every time you come home she crawls to the door, hoping youll pick her up.

John looked down.

I I didnt know

Well, now you do.

Back at home, Emily woke with a sad, thin cry. John hesitated, hand stretched out, looking at Anna.

May I?

Shes your daughter.

He picked Emily up, clumsily, almost frightened to touch her. She sniffled, but went quiet, staring up at his face with those wide, serious eyes.

Hello, poppet, John whispered. Im so sorry I wasnt here when you were scared.

Emily reached for his cheek, her soft palm searching, and John felt a lump in his throat.

Daddy! Emily said, clear as day.

It was her very first word.

John looked at Anna, astonished.

She she said

Shes been saying it for a week, Anna smiled. But only when youre not at home. Guess she was waiting for the right moment.

That evening, with Emily asleep on his chest, John took her to her crib. She didnt stir, just wrapped her fist tighter around his finger as she dreamed.

She wont let go, John said, a little amazed.

Shes scared youll disappear again, Anna explained.

He sat beside her cot for half an hour, not daring to move.

Im taking a day off tomorrow, he said quietly. And the day after, too. I want to get to know my daughter.

And what about work? Your extra shifts?

Well find another way. Or live with less. We cant afford to miss seeing her grow up.

Anna embraced him.

Better late than never.

Id never forgive myself if something happened, and I didnt even know she had favourite toys or that she knew how to say Daddy, John muttered, staring at his sleeping daughter.

A week later, when Emily was fully recovered, the three of them headed to the park together. Emily rode proudly on her daddys shoulders, giggling and shining, grabbing at the autumn leaves.

Look, Emily, look at those golden sycamores! John pointed out the colours and a squirrel, doing little dances for her.

Anna walked beside them, thinking sometimes you need to nearly lose something precious to realise its worth.

Back at home, Jean was waiting with her usual sour look.

John, Valerie said her grandsons already playing football. And yours just sits with her dolls.

My daughter is the best in the world, John answered, calm as could be, settling Emily on the rug and handing her the rubber hedgehog. And dolls are brilliant.

But the family line

It wont end. Itll go on. Just differently, thats all.

Jean was about to say something, but Emily crawled up to her granny and reached out.

Gran! Emily beamed.

Jean startled, then awkwardly took her granddaughter into her arms.

She she can talk! she blurted.

Our Emily’s very clever, John said proudly. Arent you, love?

Daddy! Emily clapped and giggled.

Anna watched that scene, thinking how happiness sometimes comes through challenges. And maybe the deepest love is the one that grows slowly, forged through fear and hope.

That night, as John tucked Emily into bed, he sang her a lullaby in a low, slightly rough voice. Emily listened, eyes wide open.

You never sang to her before, Anna noted quietly.

Theres a lot I never did, John replied softly. But now Ive got time to catch up.

Emily drifted off, arms tight round her daddys finger. John didnt pull free just sat in the darkness, listening to her steady breathing and thinking of all he mightve missed if he hadnt stopped in time to notice what truly matters.

And Emily slept on, smiling, because now she knew Daddy wasnt going anywhere.

You know, one of my mates shared this story, and I really felt it. Sometimes life doesnt just want a choice from us, but a proper test, just to wake up the best feelings weve got inside. What about you? Do you reckon people can change when they realise how close they came to losing what matters most?

Igor Never Came Home from Holiday: “Hasn’t your husband called or written?” “No, Vera, not a word in all this time,” Lyudmila joked, straightening her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s either run off or, well…” Vera nodded sympathetically. “But keep waiting. The police, nothing from them either?” “Nothing at all, Vera, like fish under water,” Lyudmila sighed. Such conversations weighed heavily on Lyudmila as she swept autumn leaves from her front path in the long autumn of 1988. Three years into her retirement, Lyudmila had returned to work as a council cleaner after money ran short. Her life, much like any typical English family – neither good nor bad – was steady: both working, raising a son, her husband only ever drinking on holidays, respected at work, not one for the pub nor wandering eyes. Lyudmila herself had worked as an NHS nurse all her life, with plenty of certificates to show for it. But then, her husband left for a seaside holiday and never returned. At first she thought nothing of it—no news is good news, perhaps. But when he didn’t come home on the date expected, she called every hospital, police station—even the local mortuary. She telegrammed the army base where her son served, and together they learned: he checked out of his hotel but never caught his train. He’d simply disappeared. At work, her husband’s boss only shrugged: “Our job was to give him the seaside holiday, not chase family drama. If he doesn’t clock in, he’ll be let go for absence.” Lyudmila was desperate to travel down to the coast, but her son persuaded her to wait: “There’s nothing you’ll find there, Mum. I’ll go when I get a week off. In my uniform, they’ll listen.” Still, she visited the police like clockwork. Her worries followed her home, so she hid them under housework. Autumn leaves fell faster than she could sweep. At night, she wept quietly, cursing her fate and the cruel ordeal of loneliness and not knowing. Igor reappeared just as suddenly as he’d gone. He wore the same navy suit he’d left in. No bag, no suitcase—just standing, hands deep in his pockets, watching her sweep the drive. She didn’t even notice him at first until her son called out. Lyudmila dropped her broom, dashed to her husband, arms outstretched, embracing him like a bird returning after a long migration. Igor hugged her back, awkwardly at first. “Come on then, let’s get inside,” her son grumbled, and Lyudmila heard the ice in his voice. After fussing about the kitchen, she asked Igor why he hadn’t at least phoned. Her son broke the silence: “Mum, I found Dad living with another woman, Olga, by the sea. He didn’t want to come back.” Lyudmila stared at Igor, who sat silent and downcast, fingers intertwined, looking like a guilty child. “So, you stayed with someone else. What on earth’s going on, Igor?” He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “I just…I realised our life was all work, no freedom. I wanted a fresh start.” “Oh, freedom! And you, son, why’d you drag your father back? Was it to humiliate me? Would have been kinder to say he’d died!” She raged: “If you’d wanted a new life, you’d have divorced me like an honest man before running to ‘freedom’. Go, leave. I don’t want to see you.” Igor trudged away. Two weeks passed. Lyudmila swept the street as usual when Igor returned, now in an old overcoat and a ridiculous hat. “Lyuda,” he called softly. She looked him over with blank, tired eyes. He edged closer. “I’m back at the factory—just as a worker now. Will you have me?” She leaned on her broom. “I’ll have you—for a divorce. Paperwork needs sorting fast.” “So you can’t forgive me?” “If you understand, why are you here? Olga didn’t want you back?” “She told me if I left, not to bother coming back, but… so here I am.” A bitter laugh escaped her. “Turns out, Igor, you’re not wanted here or there. Men who run away aren’t wanted anywhere. You only came back because your son made you. Go live your life. Don’t get in my way.” She swept his shoes with the broom, turned, and went back to sweeping her path. When she looked back moments later, Igor was gone. She breathed easier—as if a weight had lifted—and went back to her work, determined to stand her ground, no matter who tried to hurt her again.

— I’ve Had Enough of You!!!… You tell me I eat wrong, dress wrong, and do everything wrong!!! — Pavel’s voice broke into a shout. — You can’t do anything right!!!… Can’t even earn decent money!… I can never count on your help around the house!… — Marina sobbed, — …And there are no children…, — she added in a barely audible whisper. Bella — a white-and-ginger cat of about ten, perched atop the cupboard, silently observed the latest “tragedy” unfold. She knew, could even feel, that Mum and Dad loved each other deeply… so she simply couldn’t understand why they had to speak such hurtful words that only made everyone miserable. Mum fled to the bedroom in tears, while Dad lit one cigarette after another. Sensing her family slowly falling apart, Bella pondered: “We need happiness in this house… and happiness means children… We need to find children, somehow.” Bella herself couldn’t have kittens — she’d been spayed long ago. As for Mum…, the doctors always said it was possible, but things just never worked out… The next morning, once her humans left for work, Bella, for the very first time, slipped out through the window to visit her neighbour, Lucky, for advice. — Why on earth would you want kids?! — Lucky snorted — Ours bring their kittens round and I have to hide from them… They smear my whiskers with lipstick or squeeze me so tightly I can hardly breathe! Bella sighed: — We want normal children… If only we knew where to find them… — Well… Street-cat Molly’s got a litter… there are five of them… — Lucky mused — take your pick… Taking a deep breath, Bella braved a leap from balcony to balcony, made her way down to the street, and squeezed through the bars of a cellar window. — Molly, could you come here a minute please… A chorus of desperate squeaks echoed from the dark. Cautiously creeping over, Bella began to whimper. Beneath the radiator, right on the gravel, five tiny, blind kittens snuffled at the air, mewing for their mum. Molly hadn’t been back in at least three days, and the babies were starving… Fighting back her tears, Bella gently, yet determinedly, carried each kitten to the building’s front entrance. Curling up beside them, doing her best to keep the hungry bunch from wandering off, she watched anxiously down the drive, waiting for Mum and Dad to return. That evening, Pavel silently picked Marina up from work and together they returned home. Approaching the steps, they were stopped in their tracks — there was their Bella (who’d never been outside on her own before), patiently lying with five needy, mewing kittens. — What on earth is going on?? — Pavel stammered. — It’s a miracle… — echoed Marina, and scooping up both cat and kittens, they hurried inside… As Bella purred in her box full of babies, Pavel asked: — So what do we do with them? — I’ll hand-feed them with a dropper… Once they’re bigger, we’ll find them homes… I’ll ring my friends…, — Marina replied softly. Three months later, reeling from unexpected news, Marina sat stroking her “cat clan” and whispered in disbelief: — This just doesn’t happen…, it just doesn’t happen… And then she and Pavel, spilling tears of joy, danced through the house, exclaiming over each other: — I didn’t build this home for nothing! — The baby will get the fresh air it needs! — And the kittens can roam the garden! — There’s room for all of us! — I love you!!! — I love you even more!!! And wise old Bella wiped a tear — life, at last, was coming together…

“Come on then, Ginger – let’s go,” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old bit of rope. He zipped his jacket up tight against the raw February wind – this year, it was particularly cruel: sleet, biting cold, and drizzle that seemed to cut straight through. Ginger, the mangy old stray with faded red fur and one milky, blind eye, had wandered into Val’s life a year ago. It was after a late-night shift at the factory, near the bins, battered and hungry, his left eye glazed. A harsh voice cut through the grey morning. Val recognised it at once – Steve ‘Squint’, the local hard case, barely out of his teens, surrounded by his pack of sneering lads. “Out with the mutt, are we?” Steve leered, as one of the boys cackled, “What’s it, Uncle – you pay a tax to walk that ugly brute? Scary thing, that eye!” A stone came flying, thudding into Ginger’s side. The dog yelped and pressed closer to Val’s leg. “Clear off,” Val said quietly, but there was steel in his voice. “Ooh, look, Uncle Bodger’s talking back!” Steve stepped closer. “Seen your kind before. Remember whose patch this is… And only dogs I let on my patch are here with permission.” Val tensed. The Army had taught him how to solve trouble – fast and hard. But that was thirty years ago. Now, he was just a worn-out old handyman, wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless pushed. “Come on, Ginger,” he muttered, turning towards home. “Thought so!” Steve jeered after him. “Keep your ugly mutt safe, old man – next time, I’ll finish it for good.” That night, Val replayed the incident over and over in his mind. Next day, with heavy snow coming down, he put off walking as long as he could – but Ginger sat by the door, steadfast, until Val finally relented. “All right, all right – but just a quick one.” They kept to quieter routes; Steve’s lot was nowhere in sight, probably sheltering from the weather. Val was starting to relax when Ginger suddenly halted by the derelict boiler house, ears pricked, nose twitching. “What’s up, old boy?” The dog whined, tugged the rope in the direction of the ruined building. Strange noises drifted out: was that crying? Moaning? “Hello? Who’s there?” Val called. Only the wind replied, howling through the skeleton of the building. Ginger pulled insistently. Val heard it then – a child’s voice: “Help!” His heart skipped. Quickly, Val unfastened the lead and followed Ginger into the ruins. Buried behind a tumble of brick, a young boy lay crumpled: face swollen, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh, God!” Val dropped to his knees. “What’s happened to you?” “Mr. White? Is that you?” The boy squinted through bruised eyes, and Val recognised him – Andy Mason, the shy lad from three floors up. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang… They wanted money from my mum. I said I’d tell the police. They… they found me.” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. It’s freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Andy. Ginger curled up beside him, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand?” “My leg hurts – think it’s broken.” Val checked gently – definitely a break. “Got a phone?” “Taken.” Val fished out his ancient Nokia and dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, lad. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m alive?” Andy asked in terror. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val promised. Andy stared. “But yesterday… you just walked away.” “That was just me and Ginger. This is different.” The ambulance arrived quicker than forecast. Andy was whisked off to hospital. Val stood with Ginger in the snow, deep in thought. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs. Mason, came to thank him, in tears: “If you hadn’t found him… The doctor said you saved his life!” “It wasn’t me,” Val shook his head, petting Ginger. “He found your son.” “But what now?” the woman whispered anxiously. “Steve won’t stop. The police say there’s no proof.” “It’ll be sorted,” Val promised, though he wasn’t sure how. That night, he tossed and turned, plans churning. Someone had to protect the kids – how many others had suffered in silence? By morning, he knew what to do. He pulled out his old Army dress uniform, pinned on his medals, squared his shoulders. “Let’s go, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve and his crew lounged by the off-licence, jeering as Val, in full regalia, approached. “Blimey, Grandad’s off to a parade!” one hooted. Steve sneered, “Jog on, soldier boy. Your time’s up.” “My time’s just begun,” Val replied. “Who asked you?” “Andy Mason – ring any bells?” Steve’s smirk faded. “You threatening me, grandad?” “I’m warning you.” There was a glint of a blade. “I’ll show you who’s boss!” Val didn’t flinch. “There’s only one law here – and that’s to protect the weak.” Steve scoffed, “Who made you sheriff?” “My conscience.” And then – the unexpected: Ginger, silent all this while, bristled and let out a low, threatening growl. “My dog fought in Afghanistan,” Val said, lying smoothly. “Bomb squad. She can sniff out villains in her sleep.” Even Ginger straightened in surprise, baring her teeth. “She caught twenty insurgents. All alive. Think she can’t take on a junkie?” Steve retreated. “Listen good,” Val stepped forward. “From today, it’s safe here. I’ll be patrolling the estate every evening – with my dog. If I catch anyone bothering kids again…” He left the threat hanging. “You reckon you can scare me?” Steve blustered. “Call who you like. But remember – I know people inside. More than you ever will.” It was nonsense, but Val’s words carried real weight. “Name’s Val the Veteran – remember it. Stay away from the kids.” With that, Val strode away, Ginger close at his heels. Steve’s gang melted away. For the next few days, Steve and his lot were nowhere to be seen, while Val and Ginger kept up their patrol. When Andy came home from hospital, still limping, he shyly asked, “Mr. White, can I help you patrol, too?” “Talk to your mum first.” Mrs. Mason agreed – relieved her boy had such a grown-up example to follow. And every evening, the estate saw a peculiar trio – an old soldier in faded uniform, a boy, and a ginger mongrel. Ginger became a favourite; even the parents didn’t mind their kids petting her. There was something noble about her. Val told stories about the Army, about real friendship; the children listened, rapt. One night, Andy asked, “Were you ever scared, Mr. White?” “Plenty of times,” Val admitted. “Even now, sometimes.” “What of?” “That I won’t have enough strength. Or I’ll be too late.” “When I grow up, I’ll help you,” Andy said. “And I’ll have a clever dog just like Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. And Ginger wagged her tail. Everyone in the area knew her now: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog – she knows the difference between heroes and bullies.” And Ginger patrolled, proud and steadfast, no longer just a stray, but a true guardian.