**Diary Entry – A Father’s Shadow**
Emily lugged her shopping bag up the stairs to the third floor, counting each step just as she used to with her son. Back then, Oliver would mimic her, stumbling over numbers until, a few months later, he could rattle them off effortlessly. *God, how fast he grew up. Please, just let him come home safe…* The mantra played in her head like a prayer.
A door slammed upstairs, followed by hurried footsteps. She moved aside as fourteen-year-old Lily, their neighbour’s daughter, bounded down past her.
“Lily, wait! You forgot your hat!” her mum called from above.
The girl sighed, trudging back. “It’s warm out. You’re so naggy.”
Her mother rushed down, thrusting a knitted hat into her hands. “It’ll be cold later. Straight home after dance, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lily muttered, stuffing the hat into her pocket as she dashed off.
“Wear it properly!” her mum shouted after her before turning to Emily. “Honestly, this one. Thinks she’s invincible. Catching a cold’s the last thing she needs.”
They climbed together, but Emily’s silent counting was interrupted. “Heard from Oliver lately?”
“No,” Emily sighed.
“Kids, eh? You raise ’em, and they just… leave. Scares me sick worrying about Lily—out at all hours, boys, parties. Meanwhile, your lad’s off God knows where…”
Emily paused at her door, fumbling for her keys while her neighbour vanished into her own flat. Inside, the hallway was quiet. Every day, she glanced at the coat rack, willing Oliver’s jacket to appear. But only her own autumn coat hung there.
She set the bag on the shoe rack, peeling off her coat. Oliver used to rush to greet her, bursting with news. “Wait, let me breathe,” she’d laugh, swatting his hands from the heavy bag. Later, she’d call him to help, asking about school. “Fine,” he’d grunt, vanishing into his room.
After university, he was barely home. She barely knew his life anymore.
*Maybe a cat? Something to greet me…* The thought flickered and died. She barely ate, eyes glued to the telly, scanning soldiers in identical camo—faces half-hidden. Different eyes, same weary stare. *Look at the camera, love. Let me see you’re alive.*
—
**Four Months Ago**
“Ollie? You home?” she called, stepping inside.
“Yeah.” He shuffled out, shoulders tense.
“Hungry?” She unpacked shopping, but he just sat at the table. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m deploying, Mum.”
The words hit like a fist. “W-what? You—you’ve not even done basic!”
“They’re fast-tracking us. I leave tomorrow.”
“No. You’ve got your degree, a good job—what about *me*? I’ve only got you!”
“People are dying over there. I can’t sit here like a coward.”
Her chest tightened. “You’re *twenty-three*.”
His gaze didn’t waver. Tears spilled. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
She clung to him. “I won’t let you—”
“It’s done, Mum.”
Later, calmer, they talked. “Remember when I asked about Dad?” he said.
“You were five.”
“You told me he was military. A hero.”
She froze. She’d spun that lie to spare him the shame—the truth that his father, Harry, had bolted at the first mention of a baby. *Students, no money, not ready.* She’d been a fool in love.
Now, with war raging, her lie had teeth.
“True?” Oliver pressed.
“…Yes. Be proud of him.”
—
Weeks bled into months. Then, a call: *”I’m coming home.”*
She scrubbed the flat, stocked the fridge. The doorbell startled her.
He stood there—older, harder. Then she saw the crutch.
“You’re hurt!”
“Just a scratch. Mum, this is Harry. Saved my life out there.”
Her blood turned to ice. *Harry.* The man she’d sworn was a hero. He *knew* where he was stepping.
After dinner, Oliver showered first. In the kitchen, Harry spoke.
“I’m sorry. A thousand times over.”
“When did you know?”
“In hospital. He showed me your photo. I didn’t tell him. Couldn’t.” His voice cracked. “Divorced before the war. My ex won’t let me see my daughter. I had nothing left to lose.”
She wanted to scream. *You saved him. But you don’t get to waltz back in.*
Oliver returned, hugging her. “Missed you.”
“Please don’t go back,” she whispered.
“Not yet.”
That night, Harry slept in Oliver’s room. The next morning, he packed.
“Off to my aunt’s. Don’t want to intrude.”
“And then?”
“Back to the front.”
“You’ll drag him with you!” The words tore loose. “You’ve no right!”
“I won’t. But he’s grown. You can’t stop him.”
She watched him leave. Then Oliver stormed in.
“You *let* him go? He’s got no one!”
She pleaded excuses, but he chased after Harry.
Dusk fell. Finally, two figures crossed the courtyard—Oliver’s limp unmistakable.
Her heart leapt. *What now?*
Truth would come. Oliver deserved it.
For the first time in months, peace settled over her. She reheated dinner, waiting.
Whatever happened next, they’d face it together.
