The Hero Father
Emily carried a bag of groceries as she climbed the stairs to the third floor, counting each step. She used to do the same with her son when they walked home from nursery school. Oliver would eagerly repeat after her, and within months, he was counting on his own. “How quickly he grew up. Please, just let him come home safe,” she whispered, the words a desperate prayer.
A door slammed upstairs, and hurried footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Emily paused on the landing between the second and third floor, stepping aside.
“Hi, Mrs. Taylor!” chirped fourteen-year-old Lily, their neighbor, flashing a bright smile.
“Lily, wait! You forgot your hat!” her mother called from above.
The girl sighed and trudged back.
“It’s warm enough. You never let up about the hat,” she grumbled under her breath.
Her mother rushed down, shoving a knitted beanie into her hands.
“It’ll get chilly tonight. Don’t dawdle after dance class—straight home, understand?”
“Fine.” Lily stuffed the hat into her coat pocket and dashed off.
“Not ‘fine’—put it on!” her mother shouted after her.
“Hello, Emily. Just back from work?” She sighed, shaking her head. “That girl—always trying to sneak out without a hat, and then she’ll be sniffling for days.”
They climbed the stairs together. Emily tried to resume counting, but her neighbor interrupted.
“Any word from Oliver?”
“No,” Emily murmured.
“You raise them, let them go, then spend your days waiting and worrying,” the woman said. “A mother’s lot, isn’t it? Boys are one thing, but girls? Always off with who-knows-who. All mine cares about is dancing.”
Emily stopped at her door, fumbling for her keys. By the time she found them, her neighbor had disappeared inside her own flat. Stepping into the hallway, Emily automatically glanced at the coat rack, her heart thudding as it always did—hoping, praying Oliver’s jacket would be there. But only her lightweight coat hung in its usual place.
She set the groceries on the shoe cabinet and began peeling off her layers. Years ago, Oliver would rush to greet her, bursting with news before she’d even taken off her shoes.
“Wait, let me get inside first,” she’d sigh. “Don’t touch the bag—it’s heavy.”
Later, as he grew older, she’d call for him herself, asking him to carry the groceries to the kitchen while she asked about school.
“Everything’s fine,” he’d brush her off, dumping the bag on the counter before retreating to his room.
Then came university. Most evenings, she returned to an empty flat. He rarely shared anything with her anymore.
“Maybe I should get a cat,” Emily thought absently. “At least something would be here to greet me.” But the idea always slipped away as she reheated leftovers and turned on the news, scanning the faces of men in identical camouflage. Their eyes, half-hidden, all held the same weary look—yet hopeful, too. Hoping their families would see them alive. One of them might be Oliver. She was sure she’d recognize him.
Four Months Earlier
“Oliver, are you home?” Emily called as she stepped inside.
“Yeah.” He shuffled out of his room.
“You’re back early?” She carried the groceries to the kitchen, Oliver trailing behind. “Hungry?” She unpacked the bags as he sank into a chair.
“Why so quiet? Something wrong?” She froze, clutching a tub of yogurt.
“Fit as a fiddle. All good, Mum.”
But his expression was too serious. She put the yogurt away, folded the empty bag, and stashed it under the sink.
“I’ll make pancakes for breakfast,” she said, studying him.
“Sit.” He nodded at the chair she’d just cleared. She obeyed, a knot tightening in her chest.
“You’re scaring me. What’s going on? You getting married or something?”
“Mum… I’m enlisting.”
“W-what?” The word caught in her throat. “Just like that? But you’ve never even—”
“Not right away. I just didn’t tell you. Training first, then…”
“No.” Emily shook her head. “You just graduated, landed a good job… What about me? Did you even think? You’re all I have. You can’t do this to me. Why?”
“Because there’s a war, Mum. I can’t sit it out. I’m strong, healthy, my skills fit—”
“You’re not a man, you’re a boy. Twenty-three—”
His gaze hardened. She bit back the rest, tears welling. His face blurred. She blinked them away.
“When?” Her voice cracked.
“Tomorrow. Mum, I can’t just let others—”
She lunged forward, crushing him in a hug. “I won’t let you—”
“Mum, my decision’s made.” He pried her arms away.
Eventually, she calmed. They talked for hours. Oliver tried to explain.
“Remember when I asked you about my dad?”
“You were about five,” she said softly.
“And what did you tell me?”
Emily shook her head.
“You said he was a soldier. A hero. That he died in some operation.”
Of course she remembered. What else could she have said? That she’d fallen hard for a boy at uni, only for him to panic when she told him she was pregnant? That he’d begged her to “sort it out,” insisting they were too young?
She knew he was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her mother had raged, wept, then stood firm—no abortion. For that, Emily was grateful. Later.
Daniel had said if she wouldn’t listen, she was on her own. He wasn’t ready to be a father. So they’d split. She’d taken a year off uni, too broke for childcare. Those months were a blur of tears, exhaustion, silent prayers that he’d come back. Fights with her mum. Then, slowly, life settled.
What else could she tell a little boy asking about his dad? That his father was a coward? That he’d vanished without a word? No. So she spun a tale of a hero, something for Oliver to cling to. She’d planned to tell him the truth when he was older. But he’d believed it, written school essays about his brave father. No details needed—military ops were secret, after all.
How could she have known there’d be another war? After the last one, everyone thought such horrors were done with.
That night, before he left, Oliver didn’t spout noble lines about following in his father’s footsteps. He’d just asked, quietly:
“Is it true? About Dad?”
Her breath had hitched. She couldn’t break his heart now.
“Yes,” she’d lied. “You should be proud of him.”
She thought she’d heard him exhale in relief.
She let him go. Months passed without word. Then a call—just a few words. He was being deployed. He loved her. He’d come home. And the waiting began.
If she’d known, she’d have said his dad was a policeman, killed stopping a robbery. Anything but this. She just hadn’t wanted Oliver to feel abandoned. Daniel was married now, with other kids. He’d never know his son worshiped a ghost.
When Oliver started school, Emily found work in an office full of women. Women who loved to gossip over tea.
After one Mother’s Day, they’d shared stories—flowers, gifts, useless husbands. Everyone knew Emily was single. She never spoke about herself, only Oliver. Her eyes would light up then.
That day, stung by the unspoken pity, the tale of the heroic father slipped out. Later, she’d repeated it to Oliver. For a while, she’d almost believed it herself. Easier than admitting she’d loved a coward, doomed her son to grow up fatherless.
Let him believe he’d had someone worth missing.
***
Days bled into weeks. Then a call—Oliver 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 knock startled her. She flung the door open—and barely recognized him. Her boy was gone. This man was broader, harder. She threw her arms around him, tears blinding her. Someone stood behind him, but she didn’t care.
When she pulled back, wiping her eyes, she saw the crutch.
“You’re hurt?”
“Not bad. Healing up. Mum, this is Daniel. We served together.”
She looked at the man shifting awkwardly in the doorway. The name hit like a slap. Realization dawned—he wasn’t surprised. He knew whose door he stood at. Fury surged. How dare he show up now?
“Hello,” Daniel said.
Oliver kept talking, but the words barely registered. “He dragged me two miles under fire. We were in hospital together…” Saved him? Brought him home?And as the three of them sat down to dinner, Emily realized—for the first time in years—that their story wasn’t over yet.
