The One-Way Road
“Maybe you’ll start ironing his boxers next, eh? Socks too? He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake! Let him sort himself out,” snapped Adrian as Irene tugged on her jacket.
His words weren’t sharp, but the ice in his voice made her pause. She lowered her head, shoved her hands into her pockets, and slowly zipped up without turning around.
“Maybe just… shut up for once?” she murmured.
Footsteps echoed. Adrian sighed and stalked off to the living room. Another evening. Alone again. And she was rushing off to her father…
The snow outside wasn’t the festive kind—fluffy and bright. No, this was March’s surrender, sludge underfoot, half-melted and grey.
Irene slumped into the car, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel. The urge to sob clawed at her throat. Someone to understand—just once. But there was no one. She glanced at the shopping bag.
Baked apples. Her dad used to love them. Made them himself. Now, she doubted he even remembered how the oven worked.
Adrian hadn’t always been this bitter. When they’d married, he’d been quick to laugh, attentive, doting. She’d adored how he fussed over her and the kids.
But after the second child, something twisted in him. To him, the world was split: *us* and *them*. For his own, he’d move mountains. Anyone outside—even family—was a threat. Helping “outsiders” was weakness.
At first, Irene found it endearing. Then she told herself it was his odd way of loving. But now that “them” was her father… She didn’t know what to do.
“I’ve moved out. Got a flat near the tube. Filed for divorce,” her mother announced one day.
Casual, as if discussing curtains. To Irene, it was a gut-punch, though she’d seen it coming.
“He’s decent, really. But we just… didn’t fit,” her mum sighed to a friend.
“Oh, stop nitpicking. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you—count your blessings,” the friend dismissed.
“Is that all happiness is? No, Marjorie. There’s supposed to be closeness. But us? Him glued to his PC, me knitting in silence. Can’t even get him out the house, let alone talk.”
After the divorce, her mother blossomed—dance classes, finally mastering the laptop, trips with her new friend, Annie.
Sometimes Irene envied her. No real reason. Just that bright new life where neither Irene nor her father had a place.
Her father? His life had ended. He’d moved to a grim little flat in Croydon. The walls seemed to sag under the weight of his gloom.
Irene visited weekly—cleaning, cooking, just sitting there. At first, he resisted. Then he drank. Not binges, just enough to slur his words and blur his eyes.
“Tossed me aside like rubbish,” he’d mutter. “And you expect me to grin?”
“Dad, stop. She didn’t. You both just… grew apart.”
“Oh aye? Her social media’s packed with her gallivanting. Me? I’ve got nothing left.”
Her heart splintered. She couldn’t fix him. Couldn’t leave him.
“Listen,” Adrian said one night when she returned drained. “You’ve got saviour syndrome. Always someone to carry—Gran, your mate, the kids. Now it’s your dad.”
“He’s got no one. Just me.”
“He’s fifty-four! Not the first bloke divorced. Healthy, free. Let him be!”
“He’s drowning in it.”
“So you’ll drown with him? And drag me down too? Stop going.”
Her glare could’ve cut glass, but she said nothing. She’d keep going. Openly or not.
His flat reeked of fags, booze, and sourness. He stood there, gut hanging under a stained vest, stubble shadowing his hollow grin. Bin bags slumped by the door.
“Well? Come in, since you’re here,” he rasped.
The kitchen sink held few dishes, but they’d crusted over days. His phone droned news. He lit a fag, hands trembling.
“Drinking again?” she asked, already knowing.
“Got a reason not to?” He exhaled smoke. “Why d’you even come? To nag?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. The barbs, the ingratitude—she could take. But watching him rot? Never.
“I come because I care. I’m your daughter.”
“Bollocks. You’re ticking a box. Think cooking’ll turn back time?”
“I just don’t want to lose what’s left.”
His eyes—clouded—flickered. Lips parted. For a second, she saw him years ago: summer, her eight-year-old self scraped bloody from a bike crash. Him scooping her up, murmuring *it’ll pass* as he dabbed her knees with stinging antiseptic.
Where was that man? Why didn’t the hurt pass?
She sat beside him. He just grunted.
“Fancy soup? I brought chicken, potatoes, carrots. We could make it.”
“No pans. Burnt ‘em all out.”
“All? How?”
“Dunno. Time, I reckon.”
He was fading. If she pushed, he’d vanish entirely. So she unpacked the food and left.
“I’ll be back next week. Just… be here, yeah?”
“Where else would I go?”
At home, scrolling Gumtree for kids’ bikes, an ad flashed: *Zenit camera—vintage, works. No longer needed.* Her heart stalled. The very one he’d kept for decades. The one he’d used at her prom.
She wanted to disappear.
—
A year bled by. Nothing changed, only worsened. Nigel hunched on a bench, a tatty coat over a pilled jumper. A murky bottle and a bag of bread, pasta, mayo beside him.
Empty. Irene visited less. Maybe she’d given up. Maybe she was tired.
A scrawny mutt limped past—mangy, ears drooping. It sniffed, then sat. He meant to shoo it, but tore off bread instead.
“Here, scruff. Alone too, eh?”
The dog ate and stayed. Flopped down, sighing, resting its head on paws—eyes pleading.
Nigel remembered Rusty. His childhood dog who’d bolted one winter. Mum said he’d found new owners. Nigel hadn’t eaten for two days, waiting.
By week’s end, the mutt waited by his door. He named her Tess.
“Tess, bloody pest,” he’d grumble when she darted into the stairwell.
He never let her inside, but always fed her.
One freezing night, he staggered out. Minus ten, but he barely felt it. Head throbbing from last night’s drink, legs unsteady. He stumbled—fell.
How long he lay there, he couldn’t say. Tess yapped, tugged his sleeve. Then a voice:
“Oi! You alive?”
A neighbour from number 12. Later, Nigel would only recall the crunch of snow, the man hauling him up, muttering as he guided him home.
“You having a heart attack?”
“Dunno. Blood pressure, maybe.”
They both knew. Didn’t say.
That night, Tess slept indoors. He didn’t shove her out.
—
Meanwhile, Adrian writhed in pain across town. A screwdriver twist in his side. He lay sweating, waiting.
Irene woke to his restless shifting.
“We’re going to A&E. Now.”
“’S nothing. It’ll pass.”
“D’you want that on your grave? *It passed.* Get dressed.”
No arguing. She called an ambulance. Gallstones. The surgeon said a few more hours—peritonitis.
She kept vigil all night. Adrian stayed silent, awake.
“Ta,” he whispered at dawn.
“Men. Too proud to admit they need help.”
He scowled but squeezed her hand.
—
A week later, Irene visited for Nigel’s birthday. Found him walking Tess—now groomed, with a collar.
“Blimey! Where’d you get her? Pedigree?”
The dog barely resembled the stray. Clean, glossy. Nigel too—fresh jacket, trimmed beard.
“She found me,” he said. “Or someone sent her.”
Smiling, Irene handed him a gift bag.
“For the grandkids, yeah?”
Inside—the Zenit camera. She’d bought it back through a friend, kept it hidden, fearing he’d sell it. But now, she knew he wouldn’t.
No road back. But the way forward—always open.
