**The Hero Father**
Emily ascended the stairs to the third floor, clutching a bag of groceries, counting each step. Just like she used to with her son when they walked home from nursery. Oliver would echo her, careful at first, but within months, he could race ahead on his own. *”He grew up so fast. Please, just let him come home, let him be alive…”* The mantra looped in her mind.
A door slammed above, followed by the rapid patter of feet. Emily paused on the landing between the second and third floors, stepping aside.
“Hello!” chirped fourteen-year-old Sophie, her neighbour, breezing past.
“Sophie, wait! You forgot your hat!” her mother called from above.
The girl huffed but turned back.
“It’s warm outside. You’re always on about the hat,” she muttered.
Her mother hurried down, thrusting a knitted beanie into her hands.
“It’ll get chilly by evening. Straight home after dance, alright?”
“Fine,” Sophie sighed, snatching the hat before dashing off.
“‘Fine’ isn’t good enough—put it on!” her mother shouted after her.
“Hello, Emily. Just back from work? That girl, I swear, she’d go barefoot in December if I let her,” the neighbour sighed as they climbed the stairs together.
Emily had resumed her silent counting, but the woman interrupted.
“How’s Oliver? Heard from him?”
“No,” Emily exhaled.
“That’s the thing with kids—you raise them, they leave, and all you can do is wait and worry. Sons are bad enough, but daughters? Worse. Always out somewhere, and who with? All mine cares about is dancing.”
Emily halted at her door, fumbling for keys. By the time she found them, her neighbour had vanished inside. She stepped into the hallway, her eyes flicking instinctively to the coat rack. Every day, she hoped—prayed—to see Oliver’s jacket hanging there. Only her own light coat dangled, solitary.
She dumped the bag on the side table and began unwinding her scarf. Once, Oliver would come bounding to meet her, words tumbling out before she’d even taken off her shoes.
“Just let me get inside first,” she’d sigh. “Don’t touch the bag, it’s heavy.”
Later, older, he’d wait for her call before trudging over, hauling the shopping to the kitchen with a mumbled *”Alright”* before disappearing into his room.
Then school ended, university began. More and more often, she’d return to an empty flat. The shared moments, the little updates, dwindled.
*”Maybe a cat? Something to greet me, make coming home less…”* The thought flickered, then died as it always did. She’d microwave a meal and slump before the telly, eyes glued to the news.
She scanned the rows of men in identical fatigues, faces half-hidden. Different eyes, same weary, hopeful stare into the camera. *Maybe Oliver’s there. I’ll know if I see him.*
—
**Four Months Earlier**
“Oliver, you home?” she called, stepping inside.
“Here.” He shuffled out of his room.
“You’re back early?” She moved past him to the kitchen, Oliver trailing. “Hungry?” As she unpacked groceries, he slouched into a chair.
“Why so quiet? Something wrong?” She froze, a tub of yoghurt in hand.
“Fit as a fiddle. Everything’s fine, Mum.”
But his expression said otherwise. She put the yoghurt away, folded the empty bag, stashed it under the sink.
“I’ll make pancakes for breakfast,” she said, watching him closely.
“Sit.” He nodded at the chair she’d just vacated. She obeyed, her chest tightening.
“You’re scaring me. What’s happened? Found a girl?”
“Mum, I’ve enlisted. For the war.”
“H-how?” The word caught in her throat. “Just like that? You never even did National Service—”
“Not straight away. I just didn’t say. Training first, then—”
“No.” Her head shook violently. “You’ve just graduated, got a good job… What about me? Did you think of me? You’re all I’ve got. You can’t do this. *Why?*”
“Because there’s a war on, Mum. I can’t sit it out. I’m strong, educated—”
“You’re a *boy*. Twenty-three isn’t—”
She faltered under his steady gaze. Tears blurred her vision; his face swam before her. She blinked them away.
“When?” A fat drop rolled down her cheek.
“Tomorrow. Mum, I *have* to go. Others are—”
She lunged forward, crushing him against her.
“I won’t let you.”
“Mum, it’s decided.” He peeled her arms away.
Later, calmer, they talked for hours. Oliver tried to explain.
“Remember when I asked about Dad? Years ago?”
“You were about five,” she murmured.
“Remember what you told me?”
She shook her head.
“You said he was a soldier. A hero. Died in some secret op.”
Of course she remembered. What else could she say? That she’d been young, stupid, in love—then pregnant. That the man she’d adored had panicked, begged her to *”sort it.”* *Students, two more years of uni…*
Logically, he was right. But she’d hesitated, unable to decide. Then told her mum. Screams, tears—but no abortion. For that, she’d always be grateful. Later.
Daniel said if she’d made her choice, she could live with it. He wasn’t ready—not for marriage, not for fatherhood. And just like that, he was gone. She took a gap year, had the baby. Her mother worked; childcare fell to her.
So many tears, so much strain. She’d waited, hoping Daniel would return, apologise, stay. Fought with her mum, traded blame. Then—somehow—life levelled out.
What *could* she say when Oliver, older, asked about his dad? That he’d been a coward? Vanished without a backwards glance? No. So she spun a tale of a hero father, medals, sacrifice. Enough for school essays, for pride. No details—*classified.*
How could she have known things would escalate? After the last bloody war, everyone swore nothing like it would happen again.
That night, before he left, Oliver didn’t speak of honour or legacy. Just asked, quietly:
“Was it true? About Dad?”
Her breath hitched. She couldn’t tell him now.
“Yes,” she lied. “You should be proud.”
And he’d exhaled, as if relieved.
—
Days bled into weeks. A call came—brief, crackling.
“All good. Coming home soon.”
*”When?”* was all she managed.
“Soon, Mum.”
Alive. Coming home. Nothing else mattered.
She scrubbed the flat, stocked the fridge. Still, the doorbell startled her.
The man on the threshold was a stranger—taller, harder. Only the eyes were Oliver’s. She flung herself at him. Someone stood behind him; she barely noticed through her tears.
Pulling back, she wiped her face—then saw the crutch.
“You’re hurt?”
“Nothing serious. Healing up. Mum, this is Daniel. We served together.”
She stared at the man shifting awkwardly in the doorway. *Daniel.* The name struck like lightning. He didn’t look surprised. *He knew.*
“Hello,” Daniel said.
Old fury surged. How *dare* he return now?
“He saved me. Carried me two miles. We were in hospital together—” Oliver’s words blurred. *Saved him?* One thing registered: Oliver didn’t know.
She fed them, dug out spare clothes—odd, how alike they were in size. Oliver showered first.
In the kitchen, scrubbing plates, she heard Daniel’s voice behind her.
“I’m sorry. I’ve hated myself for what I did to you.”
“When did you know?” she asked, back still turned.
“In hospital. He showed me your photo, talked about you both. Oliver’s a good lad. I didn’t tell him. Too ashamed. When he asked me here, I almost refused. But… I’ve got no one. Divorced before the war. My daughter—her stepdad’s the only father she knows. No point staying. So I enlisted.”
She listened, torn. Ordinarily, she’d have thrown him out. But he’d saved their son.
“Why tell him I was a soldier? A hero?”
“Would you rather he knew the truth? That his father was a coward? ThatAs the three of them sat down to eat, the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future hung between them, but for the first time in years, Emily allowed herself to hope.
