“One-Way Road”
— Oh, so you’re gonna do his laundry now, are you? Iron his shirts? Bloody hell, he’s a grown man—let him sort himself out!
Vadim’s voice was sharp, colder than he probably meant it to be, and for a second, Irene just froze. She tucked her hands into her coat pockets, zipped it up slowly, and didn’t look back.
— Maybe just… don’t talk? she said softly.
Footsteps. Vadim sighed and walked into the living room. Another evening alone. Meanwhile, she was rushing off to her dad’s place…
Outside, snow slumped on the pavement—not the nice, Christmassy kind, but the wet, filthy slush left behind by March. Irene slid into her car and rested her forehead against the wheel for a moment. The urge to cry rose like a lump in her throat. She wanted someone to understand. But there was no one.
Her eyes flicked to the shopping bag on the passenger seat. Baked apples. Her dad used to love those. Made them himself, even. Now? Doubt he even remembers how to turn the oven on.
Vadim hadn’t always been like this. Back when they got married, he was cheerful, attentive—the kind of man who’d fuss over her and the kids. But after their second child, when money got tight, something twisted in him. He saw the world in black and white: *his* people and *everyone else*. He’d move mountains for his own, but anyone outside that circle? A nuisance at best, a threat at worst. He called kindness weakness.
At first, Irene thought it was oddly sweet. Then she told herself it was just his way of loving. But now? Now that “everyone else” was *her own father*… She didn’t know what to do.
— I moved out. Got a flat near the Tube. Filed for divorce, her mum announced one day, breezy as if she’d just picked new curtains for the loo.
It shouldn’t have been a shock, but it was.
— He’s a decent bloke, really. Just… we never *fit*, her mum sighed to a friend over tea.
— Oh, stop nitpicking. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you—what more d’you want?
— Is that all happiness is? No, Mary. There’s got to be something *more*. But with us? Him glued to his laptop, me knitting beside him like some old woman. Silence for hours. Can’t get him out, can’t get him talking.
After the divorce, her mum *bloomed*. Joined dance classes, finally learned to use a computer, made friends online. Started gallivanting around with a new mate, Alice, visiting museums and little towns.
Sometimes, Irene caught herself envying her. Not that she had reason to. Just… her mum had started fresh, as if neither Irene nor her dad existed anymore.
Her dad, though? He *ended*. Moved to a grim little flat in some dingy suburb. The place felt like a tomb, and he—Nicholas—only made it worse.
Irene visited weekly. Cleaned, cooked, sat with him. At first, he shrugged her off. Then he started drinking. Not binges, just enough to slur his words and glaze his eyes.
— She tossed me aside like old rubbish, he’d mutter. And you expect me to grin about it.
— *Dad.* No one tossed you. You just… grew apart.
— Oh, aye? Tell that to her Instagram. Packed with holiday snaps. Me? I’m done.
It broke her heart. She didn’t know how to fix him. But she couldn’t walk away.
— You’ve got a saviour complex, Vadim said flatly when she came home late one night, drained. Always some lost cause. First Gran, then your mate Ellie. Kids finally need you less—now it’s *him*.
— He’s got no one. Just me.
— He’s *fifty-four*. Not the first bloke divorced, is he? Healthy, free—let him sort himself!
— He’s *drowning*, Vadim.
— And you’re his life jacket? Nah. You’ll drown with him. And if I let you, I drown too. *Stop going.*
Her eyes burned, but she stayed quiet. She’d keep visiting. Openly or in secret—didn’t matter.
Nicholas’ flat reeked of fags, stale beer, and something sour. He stood in the doorway, paunch spilling from a grubby vest, stubble peppering his chin. Two bin bags and empty bottles cluttered the corner.
— Well? Come in, then, he rasped.
The kitchen sink held a few crusted plates. His phone droned news headlines. Nicholas lit a cig, hands shaking.
— Drinking again? she asked, already knowing.
— Got a better way to spend my time? He exhaled smoke. Why d’you even come? To lecture me?
She swallowed the ache in her throat. The bitterness, the ingratitude—she could handle that. But watching him *fade*? Never.
— I come because I *care*. I’m your daughter.
— Bollocks. You’re just ticking boxes. Think a hot meal’ll turn back time?
— I just want to hold onto what’s left.
For a second, his bleary eyes cleared. Lips parted—maybe to speak. Then nothing.
A memory flashed: summer, age eight. She’d fallen off her bike, knees bloody, wailing. He’d scooped her up without a word, carried her home, cleaned the scrapes with stinging antiseptic. Those same hands—steady then, not shaking from booze. Whispering *it’ll be alright* as she sniffled.
Where was *that* man? Why didn’t the hurt ever stop?
She sat beside him. He just grunted.
— Fancy soup? I brought chicken, potatoes… We could make it together.
— No pots. Burnt ’em all out.
— *All* of them? How?
— Dunno. Time, innit? Old things rot.
He was slipping further away. If she pushed, he’d vanish entirely. So she stood, unpacked the shopping, and headed for the door.
— I’ll come next week. Or sooner. Just… *be here*, yeah?
— Where else would I go?
At home, scrolling Gumtree for a kid’s bike, an ad popped up: *Vintage Zenit camera. Good condition. No longer needed.*
Her breath caught. *His* camera. The one he’d kept for decades, used at her graduation.
Suddenly, she wanted to disappear.
A year passed. Nothing changed, except the slow, steady rot. Nicholas hunched on a park bench now, a scruffy jacket over a moth-eaten jumper. A cloudy bottle and a Spar bag—bread, pasta, mayo—beside him.
Irene visited less. Maybe she’d given up. Maybe she was just tired.
A scruffy mutt limped past—skinny, one ear flopping. It sniffed, then sat. He almost shooed it… but tore off some bread instead.
— Here, scrappy. You lonely too?
The dog ate, then stayed. Flopped beside him with a sigh, resting its head on its paws, giving him *those eyes*.
He remembered Rusty, his childhood dog. Ran off one winter, never came back. Mum reckoned he’d found a new home. Nicholas didn’t eat for days, waiting.
A week later, the mutt started waiting by his door. He named her Teena.
— Where d’you think you’re going, eh? he’d grumble when she tried to sneak into the building.
He never let her inside—just fed her, then shooed her off before the neighbours complained.
One evening, he stumbled on the icy path. Went down hard. Could’ve lain there for hours… but Teena barked, nipped at his sleeve. Then footsteps.
— You alive, mate?
A neighbour helped him up. Neither mentioned the real reason he’d fallen.
That night, Teena slept indoors.
Meanwhile, Vadim writhed in pain across town—like a screw twisting into his side. He sweated, pale, but just *waited*. Irene woke to his fidgeting.
— We’re going to A&E. *Now.*
— It’ll pass.
— Want that on your gravestone? *”Didn’t fancy the fuss.”* Get dressed.
She called an ambulance. Gallstones. The surgeon said another few hours, and it’d have been sepsis.
Irene kept vigil all night. Vadim stayed silent till morning.
— Thanks, he muttered.
— Men. Too proud to admit they need help.
He scowled… but squeezed her hand.
A week later, Irene visited for her dad’s birthday. Found him walking Teena—now sleek, collar-clad, tail up.
— Blimey! Where’d you get her? Pedigree?Nicholas smiled faintly, adjusting Teena’s lead, and for the first time in years, Irene saw a flicker of the man he used to be.
