I remember it as if it were a faded photograph from the old days of our little town in Yorkshire, when the train had already pulled away and the echo of its whistle seemed to mark the end of something we could not mend.
John, can you hear yourself? Emily asked, her voice trembling with bewilderment. Do I have to wait until Im fortyfour to atone for the foolishness of your youth? And why should I be the one to pay the price for the fact that you found more pleasure in tinkering in the garage than in being with your own son?
Come now, Em, John pressed, as if trying to soothe a wounded animal. I was a simple fool then. I didnt value what I had, I didnt realise what I was losing. And now everythings slipped through my fingers. Even Harry doesnt think of me as a father.
Is that so? Emily replied with a bitter smile. He spent seventeen years not with his father, but with the neighbour next door. Did you really think a child could be turned off and on like a telly whenever you fancied a bit of dadtime?
Johns face darkened, his brow furrowing into the familiar irritation that Emily had come to recognise whenever the subject of his parental duties surfaced.
Enough, Em! he snapped, stubborn as ever. Those are bygones. Give me one more chance.
Do you expect me to indulge you while another child grows up without a father? Emily crossed her arms, her tone hard. Ive had enough. No, John, thats not up for discussion.
A mask of wounded pride twisted his features, and, lacking a retort, he huffed and buried his face in his pockethandkerchief. The argument stalledfor nowbut the wound lingered, a heavy sediment in Emilys heart, not because of Johns unreasonable demands but because of the boy they had brought into the world.
Emily had been twentythree when Harry arrived. She could still picture herself standing outside the maternity ward, exhausted yet radiant, cradling a tiny bundle swaddled in a white blanket. John hovered like a vulture, never stepping back. He beamed with a strange, almost reverent joy, smoothing the blanket, planting kisses on Emilys forehead, and, with a solemn air, lifting their son as if he were a prize.
Look at him! With the same little dimple on his chin, John had declared, eyes alight. Im a father now, Emily. Im only just beginning to understand it. Ill do everything with himwalks, changing nappies, teaching him to kick a football. Ill be the best dad in the world, youll see!
Emily had returned his sparkle with her own, believing every word. She imagined a perfect family, brimming with love, care, and shared joys.
Reality, as it often does, proved far more prosaic and harsh.
It was deep into the night when Emily, dark circles staining her eyes, paced the bedroom, rocking a wailing infant for the third time that evening. John lay in the bed, disgruntled, pulling the blanket over his head.
Will you just put him down? he muttered. Ive got work tomorrow; I need to get up early.
In those moments Emily slipped into the adjoining room, tears of helplessness brimming. The babys cries grew louder, desperate to stay in the bedroom, but she had no choice. She shut the door and rocked Harry for hours, merely to give John a few hours of sleep.
On the weekend, exhausted from a week without rest, Emily mustered the courage to ask:
John, could you look after him for just a couple of hours? Im on my last legs.
Later, Em, he replied, already lost in his own plans. The boys are coming over to tinker with a motorbike. I cant step away now.
Please, I cant
Youre strong, Emily. Youll manage. Ill be back and help.
The door closed, leaving Emily alone with the weight of her strength and the relentless duty of motherhood. The promised later never arrived.
Time moved on and Harry grew. Emily tried, time and again, to forge any bond between father and son. She approached John, who was slumped in his armchair watching the footie, and handed him the pinkcheeked toddler reaching for his hand.
Take him, spend a little time with him, she pleaded, not for a breather but for the sake of their family.
John took the child reluctantly, as if a suspicious parcel had been thrust into his lap. He held Harry loosely, eyes fixed on the television, and after a minute or so set the boy down on the floor, returning to the match.
By the time Harry was five, he was building towers of blocks on the livingroom carpet. John passed the sofa without a glance, and Harry, accustomed to his father’s absence, never looked up. John could not be called a completely useless husbandhe earned a decent wage, helped Emily with the kitchen and the choresbut he let his sons childhood slip by. It was little wonder that, as a grown man, Harry never truly embraced him as a father.
Harry, hows school going? John asked one afternoon.
Fine, the boy muttered, unsure.
What about your marks? Need any help? John persisted. I dont want you ending up as a street sweeper.
No, thanks, Dad, Harry replied, darting toward his room.
John tried to tempt him with a weekend fishing trip, shouting after him. Yet Harrys mind was elsewherehe had a school disco that night and a crush on a girl from his class who had turned him down. Fishing held no appeal.
The train had indeed left the station. Harry was no longer the little boy desperate for his fathers attention. The childhood John wanted to make up for was irrevocably gone, and when he realised this, he began to demand a clean slateanother child. Emily, haunted by every sleepless night, was adamantly opposed.
Word of their discord reached the extended family.
Sweetheart, Ive heard everything, Aunt Margaret chattered over the phone. Listen to your mother, have another baby. John has changed, hes grown up! Dont deny him a second chance. Think of the happiness of raising another little one.
Even the motherinlaw added, Emily, if you dont bear another, you might lose him. Men dream of being fathers. If you wont, someone else will. Itll be good for you tooyour first son will soon leave the nest, and a second will cement your marriage and give you support in old age.
Emily felt twice the sting hearing it from other women, as though her body had become a bargaining chip in some frantic market. She was seen only as mother and wife, not as the weary woman who had already walked that path and remembered how it ended.
In desperation she devised a planhalf absurd, half illustrative. She dug out an old box from the attic, filled with Harrys childhood clothes and a dusty, stillworking Tamagotchi. The tiny electronic pet needed feeding, entertaining, and cleaning, much like a real infant, but only required button presses.
When John returned from work, Emily handed him the plastic egg with the grey screen.
Whats this? he asked, puzzled.
Its your probationary period, she said. Treat this as a tenth of what a real child demands. Feed it on schedule, tend to it, press the right buttons. If after a year the Tamagotchi is still alive, Ill believe youre truly ready for another baby.
John stared at her, then burst out laughing, taking it as a joke. But his laughter turned to irritation when he saw the seriousness in Emilys eyes.
Youre comparing a living child to a toy? he scoffed.
And youll start with this, she replied. If you cant manage a gimmick, what hope is there for a real baby?
He shrugged it into his pocket, treating it as a trifle. For three days he dutifully woke at night to feed the virtual critter. By the fifth day he was irate, yet persisted. After a week he complained of fatigue affecting his job. On the eighth day, returning home, he flung the Tamagotchi onto the table. The screen displayed a stark red cross: he had failed.
Forgot to feed it. Work was a nightmare, he muttered, avoiding Emilys gaze.
The quarrels never fully ceased, but they softened. The atmosphere of misunderstanding lingered, though John no longer pressed his demands with such fervour.
Three years later, Harry, now a university student, brought his girlfriend home and announced they were expecting. John, suddenly revitalised, spoke of a second chancethis time as a grandfather. He splurged on a baby carriage, bought oversized overalls and a set of tiny building blocks, swearing he would be the worlds best granddad.
Emily watched all this with a healthy dose of scepticism.
When the grandson arrived, the familiar pattern repeated. In the first weeks John threw himself into the role, rocking the infant, snapping photos. Yet once the initial excitement faded, his enthusiasm waned. He insisted the young couple move into a rented flat, limiting his help to occasional, meticulously arranged weekend visits when the baby was fed, changed and in good spirits. The moment the child hiccupped, John would find an urgent work call, a meeting, a trip to the country house.
Emily stepped in once more, observing the scene, seeing her son and his exhausted partner, and understood she had made the right choice. Harry grew into a caring, responsible man who never left his wife alone. John, however, remained the man who loved the idea of fatherhood more than the reality of it.
