One-Way Road
“Maybe you’ll wash his underwear next? Socks, eh? He’s a grown man, for God’s sake! Let him sort himself out,” Adrian muttered as Iris tugged on her jacket.
His words weren’t openly accusatory, but the chill in his tone made her freeze for a moment. She dropped her gaze, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and slowly zipped up without looking back.
“Maybe just keep quiet,” she whispered.
Footsteps echoed. Adrian sighed and retreated to the living room. Another evening. Alone again. And she was speeding off to her father’s place…
Outside, the snow lay in patches—not the kind that sparkles at Christmas, soft and white, but the defeated sort, surrendering to March’s feeble sun. It didn’t melt so much as sag into a wet, sludgy mess underfoot.
Iris climbed into the car and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel for a few seconds. She wanted to sob. Wanted someone to understand. But there was no one. Her eyes flicked to the grocery bag on the passenger seat.
Roasted apples… Her father used to love them. Made them himself once. Now, she doubted he even remembered how to turn the oven on.
Adrian hadn’t always been this bitter. When they first married, he’d been lively, attentive—fussed over her and the kids in a way that charmed her.
But after their second child, something shifted. He divided the world into “his” and “theirs.” For his own, he’d move mountains. Anyone else? An intrusion. Helping strangers was weakness.
At first, Iris found it endearing. Then she told herself it was his way of loving. But now that “theirs” included her father… She didn’t know what to do.
“I’ve left. Rented a flat near the Tube. Filed for divorce,” her mother announced one day.
Said like she was picking curtains, not ending a marriage. It stunned Iris, though the signs had been there for years.
“He’s a decent man, but it just… never worked,” her mother sighed to a friend over tea.
“Honestly, you’re too picky. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you—that’s something,” the friend dismissed.
“Is that all happiness is? No, Margie. You need closeness. And what closeness is there? Him glued to his computer, me knitting beside him just to be near. Silence.”
Post-divorce, her mother thrived—dancing classes, mastering the laptop she’d once scorned, even touring with a new friend, Alice.
Sometimes, Iris envied her. Not for any real reason. Just the way her mother had stepped into a life where neither Iris nor her father seemed to fit anymore.
Her father, though… He’d collapsed. Moved to a bleak little flat in the suburbs. The place felt haunted by his gloom.
Iris visited weekly—cleaning, cooking, sitting with him. At first, he resisted. Then came the drinking. Not binges, just enough to blur his eyes and slur his words.
“Threw me out like rubbish,” he’d mutter. “And you want me to smile.”
“Dad, stop. No one threw you out. You just… grew apart.”
“Grew apart? Her social media’s bursting with photos. And me? I’m done.”
It broke her heart. She couldn’t fix him. Couldn’t leave him.
“You’ve got saviour syndrome,” Adrian snapped when she returned late one night, exhausted. “Always someone to carry. First Nan, then Sarah. Kids are older, now it’s your dad.”
“He’s got no one. Just me.”
“He’s fifty-four! Not the first man to divorce. Healthy, free. Let him be!”
“He’s drowning in it.”
“And you’ll drown with him. Stop going.”
Her stare turned razor-sharp, but she said nothing. She’d keep going. Openly or in secret—didn’t matter.
Her father’s flat reeked of tobacco, stale beer, and something sour. He stood in the doorway, paunch spilling from a yellowed vest, stubble shadowing his forced smile. Bin bags slumped by the door.
“Come in, then,” he rasped.
The kitchen sink held few dishes, but they’d clearly been there days. A smartphone droned news updates. He lit a cigarette, hands trembling.
“Drinking again?” she asked softly, already knowing.
“Got a better reason not to?” He exhaled smoke. “Why d’you keep coming? To lecture me?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. The bitterness, the ingratitude—she could endure. Watching him fade was harder.
“I come because I care. I’m your daughter.”
“Bullshit. You’re ticking boxes. Think cooking dinner’ll turn back time?”
“I just don’t want to lose what’s left.”
His eyes flickered—cloudy, then startlingly clear. Lips moved soundlessly.
A memory flashed: summer, age eight, gravel scraping her knees raw. Silent sobs as he carried her home. Those same hands, steady then, dabbed antiseptic on her wounds. Murmured it’d be alright.
Where was that man? Why didn’t the pain stop?
She sat beside him. He only grunted.
“Fancy soup? I brought chicken, potatoes, carrots. We could make it.”
“No pans. Burnt ‘em all.”
“All of them? How?”
“Dunno. Their time came. Old things do.”
He was vanishing. Press further, and he’d disappear entirely. So she stood, unpacked the groceries, and turned to leave.
“I’ll come next week. Or sooner. Just… be here. Okay?”
“Where else would I go?”
At home, Iris scrolled Gumtree for kids’ bikes. An ad popped up—an old Zenit camera. Her heart stalled. The one he’d kept for decades. Shot her graduation photos. “Still works. No use now,” the caption read.
She wanted to vanish…
A year later, nothing had changed—just slowly worsened. Now, Neil hunched on a park bench, a frayed coat over a pilled jumper. A cloudy bottle and carrier bag (bread, pasta, mayo) beside him.
Empty inside. Iris visited less. Maybe she’d given up. Maybe she was tired…
A scruffy mutt limped past—thin, ears drooping. It sniffed, then sat. He meant to shoo it, but tore off bread instead.
“Here, stray. Lonely too?”
The dog ate, then stayed. Flopped down, sighed, rested its head on paws—eyes pleading.
Neil suddenly remembered Red, his childhood dog. Vanished one winter. Mum said he’d found new owners. Neil didn’t eat for two days. Waited.
A week later, the mutt waited by his door. He named her Tilly.
“Tilly, bloody pest,” he’d grumble when she darted into the stairwell.
He never let her inside but always fed her, shooing her off before neighbours complained.
One evening, he stumbled outside to sit. Minus ten, but the cold barely registered. His skull throbbed; muscles ached. One misstep—down he went.
He’d have lain there longer if not for Tilly. Barking, tugging his sleeve. Then a voice:
“Oi! You alive?”
A neighbour from Number 2. Later, Neil would only recall snow crunching underfoot, an arm hauling him up, muttered curses as he was steered home.
“Not a heart attack, is it?”
“Dunno. Blood pressure, maybe.”
They both knew. Didn’t say.
That night, Tilly stayed. Slipped in with him. He didn’t stop her.
Meanwhile, Adrian writhed in pain across town. A screwdriver twisted in his side. Pale, sweating, he just lay there.
Iris woke to his restless shifting.
“We’re going to A&E. Now.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Want that on your gravestone? Get dressed.”
No hesitation. She called an ambulance. Gallstones. The surgeon said a few more hours, and it’d have been peritonitis.
She kept vigil all night. Silent, though neither slept.
“Ta,” he mumbled at dawn.
“Anytime. You men—too proud to admit you need help.”
He scowled but squeezed her hand.
A week later, Iris visited Neil for his birthday. Found him walking Tilly—now gleaming, leashed, proud.
“Blimey! Where’d you get her? Pedigree?”
The dog barely resembled the stray. Neither did Neil—clean-shaven, new coat, hair trimmed.
“Turned up,” he said. “Maybe heaven sent.”
She grinned, stepped closer, and handed him a gift bag.
“Here. Might come in handy. You’ve grandkids, y’know.”
Inside: the Zenit, secretly bought back by a friend. She’d kept it, afraid he’d sell it again. But now—she knew he wouldnHe held the camera carefully, as if it were something fragile and infinitely precious, and for the first time in years, his fingers didn’t shake.
