Father for an Hour
Edward first noticed the boy by the bread shelf in a small shop on the outskirts of York. The lad stood before the display, not eyeing the loaves and rolls but staring deep into the shelves, as if waiting for someone important to emerge—someone who had not come in a long time. Or perhaps never existed at all. The boy himself was thin, clad in an old, threadbare coat with a torn sleeve. His boots were worn, grey socks peeking out beneath them. His cap had slipped to one side, his mittens stretched and frayed, as though passed down through generations. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, lips chapped.
His gaze was not that of a child. Not pleading, not hopeful. It was the look of an adult who had endured too much—direct, heavy, edged with weary suspicion. As if he had long understood the world and now simply observed, without false expectations.
Edward took a loaf and walked past. Yet after a few steps, he glanced back. The boy had not moved. He stood rooted to the tiled floor, as if certain that if he stayed, someone would come. That something might change.
He reminded Edward of someone. Only later did it strike him—a boy from the orphanage where he had once volunteered. That child, too, had looked at the world with quiet eyes, neither asking nor believing.
Ten minutes later, they met at the till. The boy held two sweets, no bag, no basket. The cashier said something—likely, he hadn’t enough money. Without protest, the boy put one sweet back and paid for the other. All of it was calm, precise, the motions of someone who knew better than to expect everything at once.
Edward stepped forward.
“Here, let me buy you something. Bread, yoghurt, maybe milk? No tricks. I mean no harm.”
The boy met his gaze—steady, unflinching. The look of someone weary of empty promises.
“Why?” he asked.
No suspicion, only a simple truth: nothing came for free.
Edward hesitated. Not because he lacked an answer, but because he knew it was too complicated.
“Just because. Because I can. Because… once, someone helped me too.”
The boy was silent. Then, a slow nod.
“Alright. Could I have some boiled potatoes? And a sausage. Just one. No mustard. It’s too sharp.”
After paying, they stepped outside. Edward passed him the bag, careful to seem casual.
“Where do you live?”
“Not far. But I don’t go home yet. Mum’s asleep. She gets tired. Sometimes sleeps long. I’d rather sit on the bench. Can watch people there. It’s quieter.”
They sat on the cold seat by the bus stop. The boy ate slowly, holding the sausage with both hands. Small, deliberate bites, chewing carefully, as if to make it last. Not like a child, but like a man who knew the value of silence.
“I’m Oliver. What’s your name?”
“Edward.”
“Could you… just be a dad for an hour? Not forever. No promises. Just sit here, like everything’s alright. Like I’ve got someone.”
Edward nodded. His chest tightened. He hadn’t expected this, but he couldn’t refuse.
“I can.”
“Then tell me to put my cap on. And scold me about school. Mum used to do that. When she wasn’t sleeping.”
Edward smiled—forced at first, then real.
“Oliver, where’s your cap? Want to catch cold? And why’s your coat undone? How’s school?”
“Got a C in maths. But my conduct’s top marks. Helped an old lady cross the street. Dropped her bag, but picked it up. She said trying’s what matters.”
“Good lad. But put your cap on. You’re the only you there is. Got to look after yourself.”
Oliver smiled. A quiet, grown-up smile. Finished the sausage, wiped his hands neatly, tossed the tissue in the bin. Then looked at Edward.
“Thanks. You’re not like others. Don’t pity me. Don’t give advice. Just… act like it’s normal.”
“If I’m here tomorrow—will you come?”
“Don’t know. Might be a bad day for Mum. Or I might. I’ll remember you. Your eyes don’t lie.”
He stood, said goodbye, walked away. Didn’t look back. Like those who know no one follows. His steps light, yet guarded, as if holding warmth inside, afraid it might vanish.
Edward stayed. Watched him go. Wanted to call out. Didn’t.
The next day, he returned. And the next. And the week after. Even in snow, even in cold. Not to wait. Because he’d promised. Even without words.
Oliver didn’t come every time. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Edward sat on the same bench, pretending to read. But each time the boy appeared—in his slight frame, his unhurried walk, the familiar way he looked down—something in his chest loosened. As if ice long frozen had begun to thaw.
Once, Oliver brought two cups of tea. Simple plastic, wrapped in napkins.
“Today you were the dad. Now I’ll be the son. Fair?”
Edward only nodded. Words stuck in his throat.
Sometimes an hour is enough. Just one. To believe you matter to someone. That not all is lost.
