When the Train Has Already Departed

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 4

Mark, can you hear yourself? So I have to give birth at forty just to fix the mistakes of your youth? And why should I pay for the fact that youd rather spend time in your garage than with your own son? Emma asks, her voice trembling with genuine bewilderment.

Come on, Em, stop whining! Mark presses. I was stupid. I didnt value it. I didnt realise what I was losing. And now everythings gone. Harry doesnt even see me as his father.

And whats wrong with that? Emma smiles bitterly. He spent his first seventeen years not with his dad but with the neighbour next door. Did you really think you could switch a child off and on like a television whenever you felt like playing dad?

Marks face darkens, his brow furrows. The familiar irritation flashes in his eyesthe same one Emma always sees when the conversation turns to his parental duties.

Em, enough! Its all in the past. Give me one more chance, he demands stubbornly.

So I can have fun and leave everything to me, while another child grows up fatherless? Emma folds her arms. Thanks, Ive had enough. No, Mark, thats not up for discussion.

A mask of hurt and anger twists his face. He cant find a reply, so he huffs and buries himself in his phone.

The argument stallsfor now. The underlying problem remains. Emma feels a heavy ache after the fight, and it isnt just Marks unreasonable demands. Shes angry for Harrys sake.

Emma was twentythree when Harry was born. She still remembers standing outside the maternity ward, exhausted yet elated, cradling a tiny bundle swaddled in a white blanket. Mark hovered like a vulture, never moving a step away. He beamed with joy, constantly adjusting the blanket, planting kisses on Emmas forehead, and, with reverence, lifting his son into his arms.

Look at this! Hes got the same little dimple on his chin, Mark exclaimed, eyes sparkling. Im a dad now, Em. Im finally getting it. Ill do everything with him! Walks, changing diapers, teaching him to kick a ball Ill be the best dad ever, youll see!

Emma returned his excitement with an equally bright look. She believed every word. She imagined a perfect family, full of love, care, and shared joy.

But, as often happens, reality proved far more prosaic and harsh.

Its a deep night. Emma, dark circles under her eyes, shuffles back and forth, rocking a wailing infant up and down for the third time that evening. Mark tosses uneasily in the bed, pulling the duvet over his head.

Just put him down already! he hisses softly. I have work tomorrow, need to get up early!

In those moments Emma slips into the spare bedroom, tears of helplessness spilling over. The baby cries louder, pleading to stay in the bedroom, but Emma has no choice. She shuts the door and rocks Harry for hours, just to give Mark a chance to sleep.

On a weekend, exhausted after a week without proper rest, Emma timidly asks:

Mark, could you look after him for at least two hours? Im about to collapse, I need sleep

Later, Em. Ive got plans. The lads promised to help me fix the car,

But I cant

Come on, love, youre strong. Youll manage. Ill be back and help.

The door closes, leaving Emma alone with her strength and the relentless duty of motherhood. The promised later never arrives.

Time passes. Harry grows. Emma tries to forge any bond between father and son. She approaches Mark, slumped in his armchair, eyes glued to the football on TV, and hands him the pinkcheeked toddler, tugging at his tiny hands.

Take him, spend a few minutes with him, she asks, no longer looking for a break but hoping to stitch the family together.

Mark takes the boy reluctantly, as if handed a suspicious parcel. He holds Harry at arms length, eyes still on the screen. A minute or two later he places the child carelessly on the floor and returns to the match.

Now Harry is five, building a block castle on the livingroom carpet. Mark walks past him to the sofa, never meeting his gaze. Harry doesnt look up either; hes already accustomed to his fathers absence.

Mark cant be called a total failure as a husband. He brings home a steady paycheck, helps Emma with cooking and cleaning. But he missed his sons childhood entirely. Its no wonder that, as an adult, Harry never sees him as a dad.

Harry, hows school going? Mark asks one afternoon.

Ah its fine, the boy mumbles.

The grades? I hope theyre good? Mark presses. If you need help, let me know. I dont want you to end up a janitor.

No, thanks, Dad, Im good, Harry replies, hurrying to his room.

We could go fishing this weekend if you like! Mark calls after him.

Harry doesnt answer. Emma knows he has a school disco tonight, that he invited a girl from his class he likes, and that she turned him down. She also knows he has zero interest in fishing.

Its clear the train has left the station. Harry is no longer the little boy yearning for his fathers attention. The childhood Mark hoped to reclaim is irrevocably gone. When he finally realises this, he starts dreaming of a clean slate another child. Emma, scarred by every sleepless night, is firmly against it.

Soon, relatives catch wind of the familys tension.

Sweetheart, I know everything, Mark told me everything. Listen to your mother, have another baby. Hes changed, grown up! Dont deny him a second chance. Itll be such a joy to have another little one!

His motherinlaw adds her two cents.

Emma, if you dont have another, you could lose him. He wants to be a dad. If you wont, someone else will. Think of the future. Your first son will soon fly the nest. A second will cement your marriage and give you support in old age.

Emma feels doubly bruised hearing this from other women, as if her body and life have become items on a market stall. Everyone sees only the mother and wife, not the exhausted woman who has already walked this path and remembers how it ended.

In desperation, a halfmad plan forms. She digs through the attic and finds an old box of Harrys baby things, among them a dusty but stillworking virtual pet.

When Mark returns from work, Emma hands him a plastic egg with a tiny grey screen.

Whats this? he asks, puzzled, examining the gift.

Its your trial period. Care for this for a tenth of what a real child demands. Feed it, play with it, keep it clean. If after a year the virtual pet is still alive, Ill believe youre ready for a real baby.

Mark looks at Emma, then bursts out laughing, thinking it a joke. His laughter fades as he reads her stonecold expression.

Are you serious? Comparing a living child to this gadget?

Start with this. If you cant manage a virtual pet, how can you handle a real one?

Mark smirks, pockets the toy, and for three days wakes up at night to feed it. By the fifth night hes frantic, but he doesnt quit. After a week he complains that the lack of sleep hurts his job.

On the eighth day, he throws the pet onto the table. The screen flashes a bold red X, signalling failure.

Forgot to feed it. Work was hectic, Mark mutters, avoiding Emmas eyes.

Arguments keep bubbling, but they subside. The undercurrent of misunderstanding and resentment lingers, though Mark no longer pushes his agenda so fiercely.

Three years later life finally settles. Harry, now a university student, brings his girlfriend home and soon announces theyre expecting.

Mark revives his enthusiasm, this time as a soontobe grandfather. He splurges on a pram from his savings, buys oversized baby jumpsuits, and piles up tiny building blocks. He swears hell be the best granddad ever, always there to help, walk, and play.

Emma watches all this with a healthy dose of scepticism.

When the grandchild arrives, the pattern repeats. The first weeks Mark is all over the placerocking the baby, snapping photos, doting incessantly. But once the initial high fades, his fervour dwindles. He persuades the young couple to move into a rented flat, and his help shrinks to occasional, carefully scheduled weekend visits, always when the baby is fed, clean, and in a good mood. The moment the infant whines, Mark finds an urgent work call, a meeting, or a trip to his mothers cottage.

Emma steps in, watches the whole scene, sees her son and his exhausted partner, and realises she made the right choice. Harry grows into a caring, responsible man who never leaves his wife alone. Mark, however, remains the man who loves the idea of fatherhood more than its reality.

A Grandson’s Request: An English Family Story “Gran, I’ve got a big favour to ask—I really need some money.” A lot of money. It was evening when Paul came to see her, and it was clear he was nervous. Normally, he’d pop round to see Mrs. Lily Thompson twice a week. If she needed anything from the shops or wanted help with the bins, he was always there. He’d fixed her old sofa once, too—good as new. He was always so calm and reliable. But now, he was on edge. Lily Thompson always worried—you never know what’s going on these days! “Paul, may I ask what you need the money for? And how much is ‘a lot’?” Lily tensed inwardly. Paul was her eldest grandson. A good and kind lad. He’d finished school last year, working now and studying part-time. His parents had never mentioned anything worrying about him. So why did he need so much money? “I can’t say right now, Gran, but I promise I’ll pay you back—in instalments, if that’s alright,” Paul hesitated. “You know I only have my pension to get by… How much do you need?” “Two thousand pounds.” “Why not ask your parents?” Lily asked, already knowing what Paul would say. Her son-in-law was strict and believed Paul should handle his own affairs for his age, and not get involved in things he shouldn’t. “They won’t help.” Was he in some kind of trouble? Would things get worse if she lent him the money? But if she refused, would Paul suffer more? Lily looked at him anxiously. “Gran, it’s nothing bad, honestly,” Paul picked up on her worry. “I promise to pay you back in three months. Don’t you trust me?” Maybe she should give him the money. Even if he couldn’t pay it back. There had to be someone he could rely on in the world. She did have emergency savings. Perhaps this *was* the emergency. Paul had come to her. No need to think about her funeral just yet—if it came to that, they’d take care of it. The living mattered most. She needed to trust her family. They say if you lend money, you should be prepared not to see it again. Young people are such a mystery these days. But Paul had never let her down. “Alright, I’ll lend you the money for three months as you asked. But would it be better for your parents to know?” “Gran, you know how much I love you. I always keep my promises. But if you can’t, I’ll try for a loan from the bank—I do have a job.” The next morning, Lily went to the bank, withdrew the money, and handed it to Paul. He beamed, kissed her, and said, “Thank you, Gran. You’re the best. I’ll pay you back—I promise.” And with that, he was off. Lily made herself a cup of tea and reflected. How many times in her life had she been desperate for money and found someone to help? Now everyone was out for themselves. Tough times, indeed. A week later, Paul came by in high spirits. “Gran, here’s the first payment—I got some money upfront. Could I bring someone with me when I visit tomorrow?” “Of course, pop in. I’ll bake your favourite poppy seed cake,” Lily smiled. Maybe she’d finally get to the bottom of this. She wanted to be sure Paul was alright. The next evening, Paul arrived with a slim, shy girl. “Gran, this is Ellie—my girlfriend. Ellie, this is my wonderful Gran, Mrs. Lily Thompson.” Ellie smiled sweetly. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you ever so much!” “Come in, dear, it’s lovely to meet you,” Lily breathed a sigh of relief—she liked her straight away. They all sat down for tea and cake. “Gran,” Paul began, “I couldn’t say before. Ellie was terribly worried—her mum had a sudden health crisis, and they had no one to help. Ellie’s quite superstitious and made me promise not to say anything. But it’s okay now—her mum had the operation and the prognosis is good,” he said, squeezing Ellie’s hand. “Thank you so much. You’re so kind. I’m ever so grateful,” Ellie said, dabbing at her eyes. “There now, it’s all over, Ellie,” Paul stood up. “Gran, we’d best be off—getting late.” “Goodnight, dears—look after one another,” Lily called, giving them her blessing as they left. Her grandson was growing up—a good lad. She’d been right to trust him. It wasn’t just about the money. It brought them closer. Two months later, Paul repaid every penny and told her, “You won’t believe it, Gran—the doctor said we’d made it just in time. If you hadn’t helped, things could have turned out badly. Thank you, Gran. I didn’t know what to do for Ellie, and now I know—there’ll always be someone to help in tough moments. I’d do anything for you. You’re simply the best!” Lily mussed his hair like she had when he was a boy. “Off you go, and bring Ellie to visit—I’ll be delighted.” “Of course,” Paul hugged her. As Lily closed the door behind them, she recalled something her own gran used to say: “Always help your own—here in England, that’s how it’s done. If you’re there for your family, they’ll stand by you, too. Never forget it.”

Key in Hand Rain drummed against the flat’s window in a steady rhythm, like a metronome counting down the time. Michael perched on the edge of a battered single bed, hunched over, as if trying to shrink himself from fate’s notice. His large, once-strong hands—hands that once managed heavy equipment—now lay powerless on his knees. His fingers would clench every so often, as if trying desperately to grasp something intangible. He did not simply stare at the wall; he studied the faded wallpaper as though it were a map of lost hope, tracing routes from the NHS GP to the private diagnostics clinic. His eyes were washed out, like an old black-and-white film stuck on a single frame. Yet another doctor. Yet another condescending, “Well, at your age, what do you expect, Mr Harris?” He wasn’t angry; anger took energy, which he lacked. Only exhaustion remained. The pain in his back was more than a symptom—it had become his landscape, the background to every move and every thought, the white noise of helplessness drowning out everything else. He followed all the advice: took the tablets, applied the creams, endured physio on a cold NHS couch, feeling like a broken part on the scrapyard of life. And all the while, he waited. Passively, almost with religious faith, he waited for some life-raft—a government scheme, a miracle physician, a brilliant professor—to finally throw him that rescue rope, save him from this quicksand. He looked out at the horizon of his life and saw only grey rain through the pane. Where once his will had been sharp—solving any problem at the factory or at home—it had dissolved down to one daily task: endure, and hope for rescue. Family… once present, had faded away. Time slipped by too quickly. First his daughter—clever Katie—left for London and a brighter future. He couldn’t fault her; he wanted the best for her. “Dad, I’ll help, when I’m settled,” she promised by phone. Although, that wasn’t the point. Then his wife left—not to the shops, but forever. Rachel was taken quickly—merciless cancer, discovered too late. Michael was left not only with a ruined back, but with the silent reproach of still being here, half-walking, half-lying, while she, his rock, his spark, his Rachel, faded to nothing in three months. He nursed her as best he could, until her cough turned to a rattling, and the shine in her eye quietly vanished. The last words she spoke, gripping his hand: “Stay strong, Mike…” But he wasn’t strong. He broke, finally. Katie rang, suggesting he move in with her, try her startup life in her rented flat. But why would she need him underfoot, a burden in an unfamiliar home? She wasn’t coming back, either. Now it was only Rachel’s younger sister—Valerie—who visited, once a week, regular as clockwork. She brought soup in Tupperware, pasta, mince, and a new box of paracetamol. “How are you, Mike?” she’d ask, shaking off her coat. He’d nod: “Alright.” They’d sit in silence as she tidied his bedsit, as if order in things might restore order to his life. Then she’d leave, trailing the scent of perfume and the quiet, physical feeling of someone repaying a debt. He was grateful. And so painfully alone. His loneliness wasn’t just physical—it was a cell, built of helplessness, grief and a simmering anger at the unfair world. One especially bleak evening, his gaze drifted across the threadbare carpet and landed on his front-door key. He must have dropped it, struggling in from the clinic last time. Just a key—nothing special. A piece of metal. But he found himself staring, really seeing it, as if for the first time. It waited. He remembered his granddad—vividly, as though someone flicked a light on in a dark memory. Granddad Peter John, with his empty sleeve tucked into his belt, would sit on a stool and manage to tie his laces with one hand and a broken fork. Not rushing, carefully, with quiet triumph when he managed it. “Watch and learn, Mikey!” he’d say, eyes shining with victory over circumstance. “Tools are always at hand, lad. Sometimes they look like junk to everyone else. You just have to spot your ally in a pile of rubbish.” As a boy, Michael thought that was just an old man putting a brave face on things. Granddad was a hero—heroes can do anything. But Michael wasn’t a hero; fighting bad luck and back pain left no room for clever tricks with cutlery. Yet now, looking at the key, the memory felt less like a fairy tale and more like a quiet rebuke. Granddad didn’t wait for help; he grabbed what was there. A broken fork—and won, not over pain or loss, but helplessness. What had Michael chosen? Only waiting, bitter and passive, at the doorstep of other people’s goodwill. The thought made his heart race. Now, the key—this chunk of metal ringing with echoes of granddad’s words—was a wordless command. He stood, groaning, ashamed even though the room was empty. He shuffled over, pushed himself up, joints crackling. Picked up the key. Tried to straighten—his back screamed in protest. He froze, teeth clenched, waiting for the wave to pass. But instead of giving up, he tottered to the wall. He pressed the blunt end of the key to the wallpaper at the point of pain in his back, applying slow pressure, body weight behind it. Not to fix it—but just to meet pain with pain, reality brushing up against reality. He found a spot where this rough negotiation brought a touch of dull relief, as if something inside finally eased open a fraction. He tried again, moving the key a little each time. Each motion slow, attentive, exploratory—a negotiation, not a cure. His tool was not a fancy medical gadget, but this battered key. He felt foolish. A key’s no miracle. But the next night he tried again. And the next. He mapped the spots where pressure brought not more pain, but odd relief, as though spreading apart the old, tight vise grip. Soon, he used the door-frame to gently stretch. A glass of water by the bed reminded him to drink—just drink. Free. Michael stopped waiting, hands folded. He used what he had: a key, a door-frame, the living-room floor for feather-light stretches, his own will. He started a notebook—not about pain, but “key victories.” “Stood at the stove five minutes longer today.” Three empty baked bean tins on the sill became his mini-allotment. Filled with soil from the communal garden, each sprouting a few onion sets. Not a real garden—just three tins of life, and a new responsibility. A month on, seeing new scans, the GP raised her eyebrows. “Some change, Mr Harris. Have you been doing anything?” “Yes,” Michael said, simply. “Making use of what’s to hand.” He didn’t mention his key. The doc wouldn’t get it. But Michael knew. Salvation hadn’t arrived on a rescue boat. It had lain on the floor, unremarkable, while he stared at the wall, still waiting for a light to be switched on. One Wednesday, Valerie paused on the doorstep. On the windowsill, in those tins, lush spring onions thrived. The flat smelled not of damp and medicated creams but something altogether fresher, hopeful. “You… what’s this?” she managed, seeing him, upright by the window. “Garden,” he replied, simply. After a moment: “Fancy some for your soup? Homegrown.” That evening, she stayed for tea, and he—without complaints of his health—talked about the stairs in the block, how he now tackled one flight extra each day. No Dr. Dolittle arrived bearing a magic potion. Rescue hid itself in a key, a door-frame, an old tin, an ordinary flight of stairs. It couldn’t undo pain, loss, age. But it put tools back in his hands—not to win the whole war, just for small battles, each day. And sometimes, when you stop waiting for a golden ladder from the sky and spot the ordinary concrete steps under your feet, you find that climbing—slowly, carefully, one step at a time—is life itself. And on the sill, in three battered tins, grew the greenest, proudest onions—his own, extraordinary, English garden.