**One-Way Journey**
“Perhaps you’ll do his laundry next? Iron his shirts, will you? He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake—let him sort himself out,” David muttered coldly as Emily tugged on her coat.
His words weren’t outright accusations, but the icy edge made her hesitate. She lowered her head, shoved her hands into her pockets, and slowly zipped up without turning around.
“Maybe you should just be quiet,” she whispered.
Footsteps echoed behind her. David sighed and retreated to the living room. Another evening alone. And yet again, she was rushing off to see her father…
Outside, snow lay thick on the pavement—not the crisp, festive kind, but the slushy remnants of a reluctant March thaw. It clung stubbornly, turning to grey sludge underfoot.
Emily slid into the car and pressed her forehead against the steering wheel, just for a second. The urge to cry clawed at her throat. She wanted someone to understand, to hold her up. But there was no one. A glance at the grocery bag on the passenger seat made her chest ache.
Roasted apples. Her father used to love them. Once, he’d bake them himself. Now, she doubted he even remembered how to turn on the oven.
David hadn’t always been like this. When they married, he was lively, attentive, doting. She’d adored how he fussed over her and the kids.
But after their second child arrived—so did the bills. And something inside him hardened. To him, the world was divided into *his* people and everyone else. He’d do anything for his own, but any outsider who needed help? That was weakness. A betrayal.
At first, Emily found it almost endearing. Then she told herself it was just his way of loving. Now? Now her father was one of those “outsiders,” and she didn’t know what to do.
“Mum left. Rented a flat near the Tube. Filed for divorce,” Emily’s mother announced one day, breezy as if discussing new curtains.
Emily should’ve seen it coming. Still, the words hit like a blow.
“He’s not a bad man, really. But we just… fell apart,” her mother complained to a friend over tea.
“At least he doesn’t drink. Doesn’t raise his hand. That’s something,” the friend dismissed.
“Is that all happiness is? Not drinking, not hitting? There’s meant to be *something* between people. But him? Staring at his computer every night while I knit beside him, just to be near. Silence. Couldn’t get him out the door, couldn’t get him to talk.”
After the divorce, her mother bloomed—joined a dance class, mastered the laptop she’d once scorned, even started travelling with a new friend, Agnes.
Sometimes, Emily envied her. Not that she had reason to. It just felt like her mother had started anew, leaving her—and her father—behind.
Her father? His life ended. He moved into a grim little flat in a dreary neighbourhood. The place felt hollow, as if James himself sucked the warmth from it.
Emily visited weekly—cleaning, cooking, sitting quietly beside him. At first, he resisted. Then he drank. Not heavily, but enough to glaze his eyes and slur his words.
“Threw me away like last year’s coat,” he’d mutter. “And you expect me to smile about it.”
“Dad, stop. No one *threw* you. You just… grew apart.”
“Oh, she’s *grown*, all right. Look at her—flashing photos all over. Me? I’m done.”
It shattered her. She didn’t know how to help him, but she couldn’t walk away.
“Listen,” David said one night when she returned late and weary. “You’ve got a saviour complex. First your gran, then your mates. Kids grew up, now it’s your dad. When does it end?”
“He’s got *no one*.”
“He’s fifty-four. Not the first man divorced. Free, healthy—let him live.”
“He’s drowning.”
“And you’ll drown with him. And drag me down too, if I let you. Stop going.”
Her eyes flashed, but she stayed silent. She’d keep visiting. Openly or in secret—it didn’t matter.
James’ flat was stuffy as ever—reeking of smoke, stale beer, something sour. He stood in the doorway, paunch spilling from a yellowed vest, stubble shadowing his jaw. Two bin bags slumped by the door, empty bottles clinking inside.
“Come in, then,” he rasped.
The sink held a few plates, crusted and forgotten. His phone droned news headlines as he lit a cigarette, hands trembling.
“Drinking again?” she asked softly.
“Got a reason not to?” He exhaled smoke. “Why d’you even come? To lecture me?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. His bitterness, his ingratitude—she could bear those. But watching him vanish, day by day? Never.
“I come because I care. I’m your *daughter*.”
“Spare me. Duty’s all it is. Think scrubbing floors’ll turn back time?”
“I just don’t want to lose what’s left.”
His bleary eyes flickered—almost clear for a moment. Lips parted, but no words came.
Suddenly, memory flashed: summer, age eight. She’d fallen off her bike, knees bloody, gravel embedded in her palms. Sobbing, gasping—until he scooped her up, carried her home. Those same hands, steady then, dabbed antiseptic on her scrapes, murmured, *”It’ll pass.”*
Where was that man? Why didn’t the pain ever *pass*?
She sat beside him, waiting. He only grunted.
“Fancy some soup? I brought chicken, potatoes, carrots. We could make it together.”
“No pans. Burnt ‘em all.”
“*All* of them? How?”
“Dunno. Things wear out.”
He was slipping further away. If she pushed, he’d disappear entirely. So she stood, unpacked the groceries, and moved to leave.
“I’ll come next week. Or sooner. Just… be here, yeah?”
“Where else would I go?”
At home, Emily scrolled listings for a kids’ bike. Then an ad flashed: *”Vintage Zenit camera. Still works. No longer needed.”* Her breath caught. *His* camera. The one he’d kept for decades, used at her graduation.
For a second, she wanted to vanish…
…A year passed. Nothing changed—just decayed, slowly. James hunched on a bench, wrapped in a frayed coat, a cloudy bottle and a meagre bag of shopping beside him: bread, pasta, mayo.
Emily visited less. Maybe she saw no point. Maybe she was just tired.
…A scraggly mutt limped past—thin, matted, ears drooping. It sniffed, then sat. He meant to shoo it, but instead tore off bread and tossed it.
“Here, stray. You on your own too?”
The dog stayed. Lay down, sighed, rested its head on its paws—watchful.
James remembered Rusty. His childhood dog who’d vanished one winter. His mum claimed it found new owners. He’d waited two days, hunger gnawing, but Rusty never came back.
A week later, the mutt waited by his door. He named her Misty.
“Misty, where d’you think you’re going?” he grumbled when she slipped into the hallway.
He never let her inside, but always fed her—then shooed her off before neighbours complained.
One evening, he staggered out to the bench. Minus ten, but he barely felt it. His head throbbed from last night’s drink, limbs stiff. A misstep—then he was on the ground.
How long he lay there, he couldn’t say. But Misty barked, tugged his sleeve. Then footsteps—a neighbour’s voice.
“You alright?”
Later, he’d only recall the crunch of snow, the man hauling him up, muttering curses as he steered him home.
“Not a heart attack, is it?”
“Dunno. Blood pressure, maybe.”
They both knew. Neither said more.
That night, Misty stayed.
Meanwhile, David writhed in pain across town—a screwdriver twisting his side. Pale, sweating, he clenched his teeth.
Emily woke to his stifled groans.
“We’re going to hospital. *Now*.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Want that on your gravestone? *‘It passed’*? Get dressed.”
She called an ambulance. Gallstones. The surgeon said another few hours—peritonitis would’ve set in.
Emily kept vigil all night. David never spoke, barely slept.
“Thanks,” he whispered at dawn.
“You’re welcome. Men—always too proud to ask for help.”
He scowled, but squeezed her hand.
…A week later, Emily visited for his birthday. James wasShe watched him adjust the old Zenit’s lens, fingers steady for the first time in years, and realized some wounds do heal—just not the way we expect.
