No More ‘Shoulds’: When Dad Comes Home Tired, Dishes Pile Up, and Honest Conversations Replace the Usual Routine—A Family Rediscovers Each Other at the Kitchen Table

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

Without should

David pushes open the front door and steps into the warmth of the house. Three plates with dried-up pasta are scattered across the kitchen table, an empty yogurt pot has rolled onto its side, and a squared notebook gapes open amongst it all. Harrys backpack lies abandoned in the hallway, while Grace curls up on the sofa, her face aglow from her phone.

He drops his bag at his feet and slips off his shoes. His mouth opens, ready to mention the dishes, but a wave of exhaustion makes his throat tighten. Instead, he walks over to the table, picks up a plate, and carries it to the sink.

Ill do the washing up in a minute, Dad, Grace mutters, eyes still fixed on her screen.

Alright.

David turns the tap on, holding the plate under the stream until the crusted pasta softens and swirls down the drain. He turns the water off and stands in silence, staring at the slippery plate.

Grace, wheres Harry?

In his room. Maths homework.

And you?

Ive done everything already.

He dries his hands on a tea towel and walks to Harrys room. His son lies on the bedroom rug, one fist squashed beneath his jaw, a mostly blank exercise book open by his elbow.

Hello, David says softly.

Hi.

Hows it going?

Alright.

Homework?

Doing it.

David perches on the end of the bed. Harry glances at him, then focuses hard on his notebook.

Dad, whats up?

Im not sure. David sighs. Probably just tired.

He really doesnt know. His mum rang this morning, demanding he come round and help her sort the wardrobe. A tedious meeting at work dragged well past six. Standing on a packed Tube, he found himself wedged against the door. Now, slouched in Harrys room, he realises he doesnt want to talk about plates, or homework, or tidiness. He doesnt want to be a machine that switches back on whenever he gets home.

Lets all meet in the kitchen for a minute, he suggests. The three of us.

What for?

To chat.

Harry wrinkles his nose.

Is this about the English test?

No. Just talking. Thats it.

But I havent finished my homework.

You can finish it after. Five minutes.

David leaves the room and calls Grace, who looks up in annoyance.

Really?

Yes, really.

She chucks her phone onto the sofa and trails after him. Harry hesitates in the doorway before edging into the kitchen, unsure.

David sits down, moving Graces notebook to one side. Grace slumps into a chair opposite, Harry hovers on the edge of the next seat.

What is this? Grace asks.

Nothings happened, David replies.

Then what?

He looks from Grace to Harry. Harrys eyes are wary, as if waiting for bad news.

I just want us to talk, David says, measured and calm. Properly. Without all the you should do your homework, you should tidy up, all of that.

So we dont have to do the dishes? Harry checks, careful.

Well deal with them later. This is different.

Grace folds her arms.

Youre being odd, Dad.

I know, he admits. Probably because Im too tired to pretend everythings fine.

They sit quietly. His mind spins, searching for words, but there is mostly emptiness.

I dont really know how to say it, David begins, but I feel like were all pretending. I come home, you pretend alls well, I pretend I believe it. We talk about school, tea, and not much else. Were all talking, but not really saying anything.

Dad, youre making it heavy, Grace says softly. Why?

I dont know. Maybe because Im struggling myself, and Im scared youre all struggling too, and Ive no idea with what.

Harry scowls.

Im not struggling.

Really? David meets his eyes. Then how come you havent managed to fall asleep before midnight these past two weeks?

Harry freezes, staring at the table.

I hear you tossing and turning, David continues quietly. And in the mornings, you look as if you havent slept a wink.

I just dont fancy sleeping.

Harry.

What?

Tell me the truth.

Harry shrugs and turns away.

Schools fine. Homeworks done. What else?

Its not homework Im asking about.

Grace cuts in, a touch defensive.

Dad, why are you pressing him?

Im not. I just want to understand.

He doesnt want to talk. Thats his right.

David looks at her.

Alright then. Tell me how youre doing.

She gives a short laugh.

Me? Perfectly fine. Works done, texting my friends, as usual.

Grace.

She falls quiet and looks away.

What?

You havent been out with your friends in a month. They invited you twice. Both times you said no.

So what? I didnt feel like it.

Why not?

She presses her lips together.

Im tired of them and their endless gossip about boys and nonsense. Thats all.

Okay, David murmurs. But you seem down.

She flicks her head as if shaking off the suggestion.

Im not down.

Alright.

He stops speaking. The only sound is the fridge whirring behind them.

Listen, David says after a pause, Im not here to try and raise you. And I dont want you to comfort me either. Ill just say it straight: Im scared. Every single day. Im afraid the money wont stretch far enough, afraid your grandma will fall ill and not say anything, worried Ill be made redundant at work. Im scared youre secretly having a hard time, and Ill miss it because Im too caught up in myself. And Im tired of pretending Ive got everything under control.

Grace blinks and studies him.

Youre the adult, she says quietly. Youre meant to deal with it.

I know. But I cant, not always.

Harry looks up.

What happens if you cant cope?

I dont know, David answers honestly. Maybe Ill have to ask for help.

From who?

You, for example.

Harry frowns.

But were just kids.

You are, but youre my family. And sometimes what I need most is for you to tell it to me straight. Not Im fine, but what youre really feeling.

Grace runs her palm over the table, sweeping at invisible crumbs.

Why do you need to know?

So I dont have to be alone in it.

She meets his gaze, and for a moment, theres something like understanding.

I hate going to school, Harry blurts out, surprising them all. One boy keeps calling me stupid. Every single day. Everyone just laughs.

David feels something twist inside him.

Whats his name?

Im not telling you. If you get involved, itll just get worse.

I promise, I wont. Davids voice is steady.

Harry studies him for a moment.

Really?

Really. I just want you to know youre not alone.

Harry nods and drops his head.

Im not. Theres Ben hes alright. We sit together.

Good.

Grace sighs.

I dont want to go to college, she admits, barely above a whisper. Everyone keeps asking what Im going to do. I have no idea. None at all. I feel like I wont end up anywhere, like Im useless at everything.

Grace, youre fourteen.

So what? Everyone else has decided. Not me.

Not everyone has.

Everyone I know has.

David pauses.

When I was your age, I wanted to be a geologist. Then I changed my mind. Changed it again. And now Im working somewhere completely different.

Is it alright?

It varies. Sometimes its fine, sometimes its tough. Thats life it isnt meant to be mapped out from the start.

Grace nods, half convinced.

But everyone keeps saying I should decide.

They do, he shrugs. But thats what they think. Not you.

She glances at him, the worry fading into half a smile.

Youre different today, Dad.

Im tired of trying to be the perfect parent.

Harry gives a little snort.

Can I ask you something?

Of course.

Are you really scared?

Yes, David answers.

What do you do when youre scared?

David thinks for a moment.

I get up in the morning and just do something. Even if I dont know if its the right thing. I do it anyway.

Harry nods.

Alright.

They sit together, silent. David looks at his children and realises he hasnt solved anything or given them any big answers. But something has shifted: hes shown them hes not just a function, hes a person, and theyve responded in kind.

Right, Grace says, standing. Wed better do the washing up.

Ill help, Harry chimes in.

Me too, David adds.

They rise together. Grace turns on the tap, Harry fetches the sponge, and David stands ready with the tea towel. They work side by side, quiet, but its a different kind of silence. Not empty, but full.

When the last plate lands on the rack to dry, Grace dries her hands and glances at her father.

Dad, can we have conversations like this again? Sometime?

Of course, he says. Whenever you want.

She nods and heads to her room. Harry hangs back.

Thanks for not making a fuss about the boy, he whispers.

If it ever gets too much, will you tell me?

I will.

Come on, lets get that maths finished.

They walk to Harrys room and sit side by side on the rug. David opens the notebook and studies the problems. Harry shuffles closer, and together they work through each sum, slowly and quietly. This time, David is aware that behind these numbers, theres a boy whos frightened and that he, David, can be there not just as someone checking homework, but as another who is afraid, and gets up and tries anyway.

Its not everything, but its a start.

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples were throbbing—he’d finished off the last of the salads yesterday, and spent the morning packing away Christmas decorations. The house felt too quiet. He pulled on his hat, shoved his phone in his pocket, and headed downstairs, habitually gripping the rail as he went. On a January afternoon, the courtyard seemed like a set from a play: cleared walkways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor Stevens brushed off the bench by the second entrance. The snow fell away softly from the wooden slats. This was a good spot for thinking, especially when it was deserted—you could sit for five minutes and head home again. “Mind some company?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. Tall, navy jacket, about fifty-five. The face was vaguely familiar. “There’s plenty of room,” he replied, sliding over. “Which flat are you in?” “Forty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he said, shaking the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Is it alright if I smoke?” “Go right ahead.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the whiff of tobacco oddly reminded him of the newspaper office where he’d spent most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale the scent, then pushed the urge aside. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ‘87. The whole estate had just gone up back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Metalworkers’ Community Centre. As a sound engineer.” Victor started. “For Valery Zakharov?” “That’s the one! How do you…” “I wrote a feature on him. Back in ‘89, when we put on that anniversary concert. Remember, when ‘August’ played?” “I could go through that concert start to finish!” Michael grinned. “We dragged in this giant speaker, the power supply was sparking…” The conversation flowed on its own. Names and stories resurfaced—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he really ought to head back, but there was always another twist: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He’d long since fallen out of the habit of long talks. In recent years at the paper he’d only written urgent stories, and after retirement he’d withdrawn completely. He’d convinced himself it was easier not to depend on or get close to anyone. But now, something inside him felt as if it was thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I’ve got all the archives at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes I recorded myself. If you fancy having a look…” Why would I do that, Victor wondered. Then he’d have to socialise, his usual routine would get upended. And what would he really see that’s new? “I think I would,” he replied. “When would suit?” “Tomorrow’s fine. Around five? I’ll be back from work by then.” “Let’s do it,” Victor took out his phone and opened his contacts. “I’ll give you my number. If anything changes, we’ll sort it out.” That night he couldn’t sleep, replaying the conversation and recalling details from old times. More than once, he reached for his phone—to cancel, to make an excuse. But he didn’t. The next morning, he woke to the phone ringing. On the screen: ‘Michael, neighbour.’ “Not having second thoughts, are you?” Michael’s voice sounded slightly unsure. “No,” Victor replied. “I’ll be there at five.”

The Secret In a small English village, more a rural hamlet than a true town, lived a girl named Lily. One day her mother, a firm believer in the mystical, took her to visit the local fortune teller. The old mystic laid out the cards and declared: “Lily will have a happy life. Everything will turn out well for her. But I don’t see a man by her side.” Lily was only about ten at the time. The words of the mysterious old woman were seared into her memory, though she barely understood them. Years passed. Lily grew into a tall, beautiful woman who drove all the village lads wild. But she never settled on any of them, dating one and then another but never making a decision. Despite doing well at school, she didn’t leave for university. Instead, she stayed and took a job at the local dairy. Rumour had it she was seeing one of the managers, but no one ever saw them together. The older women at the factory would warn the newcomer: “Careful, Lily, don’t get stuck here or you’ll find life’s passed you by. Head to the city—you’ve got everything going for you there.” Lily just smiled, never replying. Suddenly, news swept through the village: Lily was pregnant! Speculation exploded about who could have “blessed” the village beauty, but no one could figure out who the father was. Her mother didn’t hesitate: “So you’ve done it? Shamed the family! You’re on your own now. Don’t expect my help. You made your bed, now lie in it. And find somewhere else to live, you’re not staying here—I’ll give you a month.” “All right, Mum,” Lily replied calmly, “I’ll go. But don’t expect me to come back.” Two weeks later, Lily bought a small cottage, complete with all the household bits. She was lucky, said the neighbors—the previous owner’s children had taken her to the city and sold the house for next to nothing. Where Lilly, pregnant as she was, got even those few pounds was a mystery. Then the miracles began. The cottage was swiftly done up, fitted with a modern touch and a new fence, and a fresh water well appeared in the yard. People would turn up, do the work quickly, and then vanish. Soon after, Lily received deliveries of boxes filled with appliances and new furniture. She walked around the village smiling, looking every bit as content and carefree as anyone could imagine—nothing like an abandoned, single mother. That autumn, Lily’s son, Anthony, was born, and a brand new sky-blue pram appeared before her tidy little house. She bounced back from childbirth quickly, looking even more striking than before. Always poised and well-dressed, she walked through the village with her head held high, looking endlessly content. At home, she worked tirelessly: the newborn, the garden, the wood stove, shopping, laundry—but she never once complained. Raised to value hard work, she simply got on with things. Neighbors, recognizing her spirit and kindness, became friends, even helping with Anthony when she needed to nip out. They’d lend a hand in the garden—sending a husband round to dig beds, or helping with weeding—but Lily managed most things on her own. When Anthony was about two, one neighbor rushed to another wide-eyed: “Did you see?” “What?” “Lily’s pregnant again!” “Nonsense, you’re imagining it!” “No, really—come and see!” Once again, gossip about Lily spread through the village: who could be the father this time? But no one had seen her with any man. Lily ignored the whispers, quietly carrying on with her life. Soon a little bathhouse appeared on her land, gas fitters rerouted their route to install gas for her, and a modern greenhouse sprang up in her garden. “So where does a single woman get that kind of money?” villagers wondered, “She must have a secret admirer—someone important. But Lily’s secret remained unsolved.” The same sky-blue pram reappeared in her yard and Anthony had a new little brother, Sam. Two years later, another brother—Michael. Lily had three sons, and no one in the village knew who their father was. Some openly mocked her, some admired her courage when they saw her healthy, well-cared-for children and tireless work ethic. Others wagged their fingers and used her as a cautionary tale for their own daughters. Lily’s mother couldn’t understand her, was ashamed, never tried to help or get to know her grandchildren. Lily simply held her head high and ignored it all. Time passed—until the day a fancy car pulled up outside Lily’s house. Out stepped the owner of the dairy factory—a widely respected figure—bearing a huge bouquet. He went in, and as townsfolk gathered outside, Lily eventually stepped out with him, only for the man to embrace and kiss her in front of everyone before announcing loudly: “Lily has agreed to be my wife. We, and our sons, invite you all to our wedding!” A stunned silence. Only then did the villagers realise who Lily’s boys reminded them of… At last, congratulations rained down from every direction. After a grand wedding, the dairy owner moved Lily and her sons into his home, with the whole village helping to pack up her things. A year later, the family welcomed a long-awaited baby girl… So much for fortune tellers!

013

As a child, I was curious to discover who my father was. Growing up in care, his absence became ‘normal’ for me. At 14, I met the father of my children and had no desire to search for my own father—life simply went on. Later, after separating, fate unexpectedly led me to him. I run my own business, and one day a client arrived. We struck up a conversation, and I mentioned I’d never met my father. He helped me find him in the village where he’d lived all his life. Meeting him at last brought indescribable joy. I made plans with him—trips, chats, little gestures. I’d buy him clothes, indulge him, always paid for everything, feeling a need to make up for lost years. He told me he was alone, his local children wouldn’t let him have a partner, insisting any woman near him wanted only his money. I asked to meet the woman he claimed loved him, and he introduced us—a humble, hardworking lady who genuinely cared. But his children rejected her, insulted her, called the police, and treated her badly at every turn. She confided the reason: my father had houses, land, and money in the bank—and his children blocked anyone getting close, frantic to protect their inheritance. That’s when the whispers began. People said I only appeared to take everything from him. I didn’t even bear his surname, but he insisted I accept it. I didn’t want the trouble, but eventually I agreed, and tensions flared. My bond with my father’s partner only grew stronger. I suggested they marry in secret, and they did. His children’s anger intensified. But I told them he deserved happiness. Their marriage had ups and downs, but one day I invited them both on a trip. Usually it was just me and my father. During the trip, his wife asked how much I’d contribute to expenses; I said nothing, as I’d always covered our trips. That’s when she shook my world: she revealed things weren’t as I thought. My father was always financially comfortable. His children controlled him, wouldn’t let him spend on himself or enjoy life. I’d thought he had little, living in an unfinished house and looking deprived, but others managed his money. From then on, I encouraged him to enjoy what he’d worked for. But he said his children wouldn’t allow it. After the wedding, his wife pressed him to help with household expenses. Every request sparked an argument. Eventually he’d contribute, but only after a row. She confided everything, and I saw her requests as fair. One day, when his wife asked him to buy lunch for her father, he exploded—told her to pay instead, bemoaning the daily requests, and started a fight. I defended her, reminding him how unfair it was to deny someone who cared so much. He replied he was tired of always being asked for money. Then it hit me, painfully: my father was generous with the children who never cared for him and came only for his money, but stingy with the woman who looked after him. Eventually, his marriage ended. Now he lives alone. Supposedly a daughter ‘looks after’ him, but everyone knows he’s supporting her, her husband, and their children. His other kids order him around and he sends them money instantly. But to the woman who stood by him—he always refused. I’m not the same with him anymore. I love him, but it’s different. I no longer invite him on holidays; we rarely talk. If I don’t call, he doesn’t ring. I can’t be who I was. It hurts to admit—finding him once filled me with hope, but now, it’s as if he no longer exists.