A winter evening settled over the city far sooner than usual, the sky turning inky by late afternoon while the street lamps flickered on with their steady amber glow. Inside Andrews flat it felt snug and sheltered, the floor lamp casting a gentle honeyed light that softened the edges of the sofa and chairs and sent peculiar shadows drifting along the walls. On the low table, next to a small plate of biscuits, two mugs of tea sent up thin curls of steam that carried the scent of mint and honey through the room. Beyond the window large snowflakes turned slowly, now and then brushing the glass before settling on the sill where a soft white layer was already gathering.
Andrew had just finished setting things out, choosing the mugs he liked best, arranging the biscuits, even lighting a small scented candle so the air would feel especially welcoming. The bell rang. He hurried to the door and found Anthony on the step, hair tousled and cheeks flushed from the cold.
Frozen right through, Anthony muttered, stepping inside and shaking snow from his coat. The collar was dusted white and tiny flakes still melted on his eyebrows. Weather like this is only fit for staying indoors, no question.
And thats exactly what were doing, Andrew answered with a warm smile, taking the coat. Come through, Emma and I were just about to have tea. You look as if you could use some too.
They moved into the living room. Anthony headed straight for the table, eager for warmth. He sank into the armchair, reached for a mug and wrapped both hands around it, eyes half-closed as the heat crept back into his fingers. The rising steam wrapped his face for a moment.
Whats so urgent that youve come round on a Friday night? Anthony asked, a faint smile playing at his mouth. Werent you meant to be taking Sophie and Ethan over to her mothers this evening? He took a careful sip and nodded, satisfied.
Meant to, but didnt go, Andrew replied with a crooked grin, sipping again.
Right. How are Sophie and Ethan doing?
Anthony went still for a second, as though turning something over. Then he gave a small shrug, as if brushing the thought aside.
Everythings fine, really, he said, trying to sound light, yet the words carried a faint weight that made Andrew pause.
Anthony sat turning the empty mug in his hands, pressing his fingers against the smooth sides, then letting it roll a little, then gripping it again, the small motion seeming to steady him. His eyes wandered the room, resting on the bookshelf, sliding across a picture on the wall, never quite meeting Andrews.
At last he drew a long breath and spoke quietly but clearly.
Ive asked for a divorce.
Andrews own mug trembled just enough to send a ripple across the surface of his tea. He stared at his friend, surprise plain on his face.
Seriously? With Sophie? he asked, voice lifting a little.
Anthony nodded without looking away from the window, as though trying to find something beyond the drifting snow.
Yes, he said after a moment. I met someone Olivia. With her I feel as though Im actually living for the first time. Shes like a light in the window, if that makes sense.
Youre sure this isnt just something that will pass? Andrew asked, keeping his tone even though irritation crept in. You have a child! Ethans only two. What happens to him without his father? Think about how you grew up.
Anthony lifted his head sharply. A steadiness appeared in his eyes that Andrew had not seen before, as though he had rehearsed this answer many times.
Im sure, he said firmly. Ive thought about it for a long time. I cant keep waking up every morning playing a part that isnt mine. Thats not living, Andrew, its just drifting along. With Olivia everything feels different. I actually want to get up in the mornings. I have things I want to do. And Ethan Im not leaving him the way my father left us.
Andrew fell silent, memories rising unbidden. He saw a school playground on a cool autumn morning, the two of them sitting on a bench during break. Anthony, still a boy with bright eyes, had spoken with fierce certainty that he would never become like his own father. He just walked away without even trying to fix anything, the younger Anthony had said. I wont do that. If I ever marry, Ill fight for my family right to the end.
Those old words now echoed oddly in the present. Andrew looked at the man across from him and asked, almost under his breath, Do you remember what you used to say at school about never repeating his mistake?
Anthonys hands tightened on his knees. He lifted his chin a fraction.
Of course I remember. So what?
So now youre doing exactly the same thing, Andrew said calmly. Leaving your wife and child behind.
Anthony sprang to his feet as if something had propelled him. He took two steps, turned, and the fire in his eyes was half anger, half desperation.
Its not the same at all! he burst out, then lowered his voice. My father simply disappeared. He never explained anything. Im telling Sophie how I feel. Weve talked it through. Im not running away, Im trying to do the right thing even though it hurts. And Ill still see Ethan. Ill pick him up at weekends. Its completely different, dont you see? Im not like him.
Andrew stayed seated, running a hand slowly along the edge of the table before looking up.
You really mean that? he asked, voice quiet but steady. You think Ethan will find it easier because you were honest when you left? What matters to a child isnt explanations. Its whether his dad still comes home, still reads stories at bedtime, still plays with toy cars. Are you certain your honesty will outweigh that?
Anthony stood motionless, gaze fixed on the carpet as though the pattern might offer an answer. In his mind images flickered, sharp and painful. He saw himself at seven, sitting on a cold bench outside school, waiting for his mother who was late again, the wind cutting through his coat while he stayed put, afraid she would pass without noticing. Then at thirteen, standing at the classroom window with his back to classmates who taunted him about his missing father. At sixteen, in his bedroom, hurling the cheap guitar his father had given him against the wall so the wood cracked.
His friends childhood had been nothing like that. Andrews father had been steady, present, taking him fishing, mending bikes, attending every parents evening. Anthony had once watched them building a model plane and said quietly, Your dads like a superhero.
Andrew had simply smiled and answered, My dad just loves me.
The words had stayed with Anthony for years before he truly understood them.
Now, across from his friend, Anthony felt old feelings rising like a tide. Andrews voice pulled him back.
You dont understand, Anthony said, his voice unsteady. Im not like him. Im not running or abandoning anyone. Im building something new instead of escaping.
Andrew studied him, calm but searching.
Did you truly try to save what you had? he asked softly. Really try? Or did you decide it was simpler to start fresh?
Anthony went pale, fingers curling into fists.
I tried, he said, lifting his eyes. Year after year. We talked, we tried to change things, but it always slipped back to the same place. Like we were both trapped in a loop with no room for anything better.
Andrew leaned forward slightly.
What did you actually do? he asked, not unkindly. When was the last time you bought Sophie flowers for no reason at all? Or took her out somewhere just because? Or simply told her something kind?
Enough! Anthonys voice rose louder than he intended. Your life has always been perfect, perfect family, perfect father. Its easy for you to judge.
There was no real anger in the words, only a long-held hurt. He unclenched his hands.
Andrew did not move. He drew a slow breath and passed a hand across his face.
This isnt about perfection, he said gently but firmly. Its about choosing not to repeat someone elses mistakes.
Anthony spun toward the door, face tight with strain.
What does any of that have to do with it? he snapped. You cant know what its like to grow up feeling you dont matter to your own father!
And because of that youre making your own son feel the same? Andrew answered quietly. You say youre not like your father, yet youre acting exactly like him.
Anthony paused in the doorway, hand on the handle, then turned. The anger had drained away, leaving only confusion and something close to fear.
You just wont understand, he said, voice low and tired.
Understand what? That youre leaving your wife and small child because someone else came along? Andrew shook his head. Youre right. I cant.
Keep your lectures to yourself, Anthony said over his shoulder, and walked out, the door slamming behind him.
The sound rolled through the flat and left a heavy stillness. Andrew remained where he was, looking at the empty chair. He waited a moment, half expecting the door to open again, but nothing happened. He sat down on the sofa, rubbing his face, eyes closed, thoughts scattering like water on glass.
After a while Emma came in, wearing a dressing gown with a towel over her shoulders, fresh from the bath. She looked concerned, glancing at the open door and then at Andrew.
What happened? I heard shouting, she asked quietly, sitting beside him.
Andrew sighed. Anthonys leaving Sophie. Says he met someone else and wants a divorce.
Emma drew in a sharp breath, hand to her chest.
But they have a little boy! And they always seemed so happy together. We saw them at birthdays and parties
Exactly, Andrew said bitterly. And now hes doing what his father did, without even realising it. The same story, only now hes the one walking away.
Emma was quiet for a moment, thinking.
Maybe hes just lost, she suggested. Sometimes people cant see what they really want. Perhaps he thinks this is the only way to change things.
Andrew shook his head.
People get lost, he agreed. But he isnt even trying to find his way back. Hes repeating the very thing he always said he hated.
Outside the snow kept falling, covering the streets in white. The flat was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.
A week later Andrew and Emma stood at Sophies door. The wind was sharp, stirring the drifts. Emma carried a pie in a neat box tied with ribbon, not showy but enough to give a reason for the visit.
Andrew straightened his jacket, glanced at her, and rang the bell. A gentle chime sounded inside. After a moment the door opened a little. Sophie looked out, clearly surprised.
Andrew? Emma? What are you she began.
We just wanted to see how you are, Emma said gently, holding out the box. May we come in?
Sophie hesitated, then stepped back.
Of course. Please.
They followed her to the kitchen. The flat was unusually still. Sophie switched on the kettle and set out cups, her movements precise but distant, as if she were moving through a routine to keep steady.
Sit down, she said.
Emma placed the pie on the table and untied the ribbon. Sophie poured tea but left her own cup mostly untouched, turning it slowly between her palms.
How are you managing? Andrew asked carefully.
Sophie lifted one shoulder. Im getting by. Work helps. It leaves less time to think.
She paused, then added, Ethan doesnt fully understand yet. He asks where his dad is. I tell him Daddys working. I dont know if he believes it, but at least he doesnt cry.
Her voice caught on the last word. She smiled quickly, as if to show it wasnt so bad.
Emma reached over and touched Sophies hand, a quiet, steady gesture. Sophie squeezed her fingers in thanks, then looked down again.
If you need help with Ethan or anything else, just say, Emma said firmly but kindly. Were here.
Sophie raised her eyes. Tears welled and one slipped down her cheek, but she let it fall.
Thank you, she whispered. I didnt know who to turn to. Everything came at once and it felt like there was no one.
She took a breath. I used to think I had plenty of friends, but when I needed someone it turned out there was no one to ask.
Andrew leaned forward a little.
Come to us, he said. Any time. You dont even have to ask.
Sophie nodded, no longer trying to hold back the tears. They were tears of relief now, as if a heavy weight had finally found somewhere to rest.
Emma gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then reached for the pie.
Lets have some tea before it goes cold. And try the pie. I made it for you. I may have left it in the oven a bit long, but it still tastes all right.
The ordinary words helped Sophie steady herself. She wiped her face, managed a small smile, and picked up a spoon.
Three years later a sunny afternoon in the park felt almost unreal in its brightness. Five-year-old Ethan raced across the vivid grass, kicking a red ball, his laughter carrying along the paths. Emma sat on a bench, rocking a pram where their baby daughter slept, the breeze stirring the lace on her bonnet. Andrew sat beside her, watching the boy with quiet affection.
Hes grown so much, Emma said, glancing away from the pram for a moment. And so lively. Never still for a second.
Yes, Andrew nodded, following Ethan as he dodged an invisible opponent and cheered at an imaginary goal. Sophies doing well with him. You can see how much she puts into it.
Emma sighed. She is, but its hard. Especially when Anthony misses another birthday or cancels at the last minute. Yesterday he was meant to collect Ethan but sent a message at six in the morning saying something had come up at work.
Andrews expression darkened. Over the years the pattern had become familiar: Anthony would appear suddenly with expensive gifts bought in haste, or promise an outing and then cancel, or turn up unannounced mid-week for a brief serious talk before glancing at his watch and leaving again.
I tried speaking to him, Andrew admitted. Told him Ethan isnt a toy you can pick up and put down. That a child needs presence, not just presents. He just says I dont understand, that things are complicated right now.
Complicated for three years, Emma said quietly, sadly rather than angrily. Ethans old enough to notice. Yesterday he asked Sophie if his dad had stopped loving him. She could barely keep from crying.
Andrews hands tightened briefly on the bench.
Sometimes it feels as though Anthony refuses to see whats really happening. He used to swear hed never be like his father, that he knew what it was like to have a dad who turned up once in a while with sweets and then vanished. And now
Now hes exactly the same, Emma finished gently. And he justifies it by saying hes finding himself or trying to sort his life out, when really hes just avoiding what matters.
Ethan ran up, flushed and breathless, hair messy.
Uncle Andrew, look what I can do! he shouted, showing a new trick with the ball, then dashed off again without waiting.
Emma watched him with warm fondness.
Its good he has you. At least one adult is always there. He feels it. To him youre the one who doesnt disappear or forget.
Andrew nodded, eyes still on the boy. A quiet resolve settled in him. If Anthony would not be a father, then he would make sure Ethan never felt abandoned. The old pattern would not repeat itself here.
The sun continued to shine, Ethan laughed, the pram rocked gently, and Andrew felt the certainty grow stronger: he would do whatever it took so the boy grew up knowing there were people who stayed. Children need not a perfect past, but a present where someone remains.A winter evening settled over the city far sooner than usual, the sky turning inky by late afternoon while the street lamps flickered on with their steady amber glow. Inside Andrews flat it felt snug and sheltered, the floor lamp casting a gentle honeyed light that softened the edges of the sofa and chairs and sent peculiar shadows drifting along the walls. On the low table, next to a small plate of biscuits, two mugs of tea sent up thin curls of steam that carried the scent of mint and honey through the room. Beyond the window large snowflakes turned slowly, now and then brushing the glass before settling on the sill where a soft white layer was already gathering.
Andrew had just finished setting things out, choosing the mugs he liked best, arranging the biscuits, even lighting a small scented candle so the air would feel especially welcoming. The bell rang. He hurried to the door and found Anthony on the step, hair tousled and cheeks flushed from the cold.
Frozen right through, Anthony muttered, stepping inside and shaking snow from his coat. The collar was dusted white and tiny flakes still melted on his eyebrows. Weather like this is only fit for staying indoors, no question.
And thats exactly what were doing, Andrew answered with a warm smile, taking the coat. Come through, Emma and I were just about to have tea. You look as if you could use some too.
They moved into the living room. Anthony headed straight for the table, eager for warmth. He sank into the armchair, reached for a mug and wrapped both hands around it, eyes half-closed as the heat crept back into his fingers. The rising steam wrapped his face for a moment.
Whats so urgent that youve come round on a Friday night? Anthony asked, a faint smile playing at his mouth. Werent you meant to be taking Sophie and Ethan over to her mothers this evening? He took a careful sip and nodded, satisfied.
Meant to, but didnt go, Andrew replied with a crooked grin, sipping again.
Right. How are Sophie and Ethan doing?
Anthony went still for a second, as though turning something over. Then he gave a small shrug, as if brushing the thought aside.
Everythings fine, really, he said, trying to sound light, yet the words carried a faint weight that made Andrew pause.
Anthony sat turning the empty mug in his hands, pressing his fingers against the smooth sides, then letting it roll a little, then gripping it again, the small motion seeming to steady him. His eyes wandered the room, resting on the bookshelf, sliding across a picture on the wall, never quite meeting Andrews.
At last he drew a long breath and spoke quietly but clearly.
Ive asked for a divorce.
Andrews own mug trembled just enough to send a ripple across the surface of his tea. He stared at his friend, surprise plain on his face.
Seriously? With Sophie? he asked, voice lifting a little.
Anthony nodded without looking away from the window, as though trying to find something beyond the drifting snow.
Yes, he said after a moment. I met someone Olivia. With her I feel as though Im actually living for the first time. Shes like a light in the window, if that makes sense.
Youre sure this isnt just something that will pass? Andrew asked, keeping his tone even though irritation crept in. You have a child! Ethans only two. What happens to him without his father? Think about how you grew up.
Anthony lifted his head sharply. A steadiness appeared in his eyes that Andrew had not seen before, as though he had rehearsed this answer many times.
Im sure, he said firmly. Ive thought about it for a long time. I cant keep waking up every morning playing a part that isnt mine. Thats not living, Andrew, its just drifting along. With Olivia everything feels different. I actually want to get up in the mornings. I have things I want to do. And Ethan Im not leaving him the way my father left us.
Andrew fell silent, memories rising unbidden. He saw a school playground on a cool autumn morning, the two of them sitting on a bench during break. Anthony, still a boy with bright eyes, had spoken with fierce certainty that he would never become like his own father. He just walked away without even trying to fix anything, the younger Anthony had said. I wont do that. If I ever marry, Ill fight for my family right to the end.
Those old words now echoed oddly in the present. Andrew looked at the man across from him and asked, almost under his breath, Do you remember what you used to say at school about never repeating his mistake?
Anthonys hands tightened on his knees. He lifted his chin a fraction.
Of course I remember. So what?
So now youre doing exactly the same thing, Andrew said calmly. Leaving your wife and child behind.
Anthony sprang to his feet as if something had propelled him. He took two steps, turned, and the fire in his eyes was half anger, half desperation.
Its not the same at all! he burst out, then lowered his voice. My father simply disappeared. He never explained anything. Im telling Sophie how I feel. Weve talked it through. Im not running away, Im trying to do the right thing even though it hurts. And Ill still see Ethan. Ill pick him up at weekends. Its completely different, dont you see? Im not like him.
Andrew stayed seated, running a hand slowly along the edge of the table before looking up.
You really mean that? he asked, voice quiet but steady. You think Ethan will find it easier because you were honest when you left? What matters to a child isnt explanations. Its whether his dad still comes home, still reads stories at bedtime, still plays with toy cars. Are you certain your honesty will outweigh that?
Anthony stood motionless, gaze fixed on the carpet as though the pattern might offer an answer. In his mind images flickered, sharp and painful. He saw himself at seven, sitting on a cold bench outside school, waiting for his mother who was late again, the wind cutting through his coat while he stayed put, afraid she would pass without noticing. Then at thirteen, standing at the classroom window with his back to classmates who taunted him about his missing father. At sixteen, in his bedroom, hurling the cheap guitar his father had given him against the wall so the wood cracked.
His friends childhood had been nothing like that. Andrews father had been steady, present, taking him fishing, mending bikes, attending every parents evening. Anthony had once watched them building a model plane and said quietly, Your dads like a superhero.
Andrew had simply smiled and answered, My dad just loves me.
The words had stayed with Anthony for years before he truly understood them.
Now, across from his friend, Anthony felt old feelings rising like a tide. Andrews voice pulled him back.
You dont understand, Anthony said, his voice unsteady. Im not like him. Im not running or abandoning anyone. Im building something new instead of escaping.
Andrew studied him, calm but searching.
Did you truly try to save what you had? he asked softly. Really try? Or did you decide it was simpler to start fresh?
Anthony went pale, fingers curling into fists.
I tried, he said, lifting his eyes. Year after year. We talked, we tried to change things, but it always slipped back to the same place. Like we were both trapped in a loop with no room for anything better.
Andrew leaned forward slightly.
What did you actually do? he asked, not unkindly. When was the last time you bought Sophie flowers for no reason at all? Or took her out somewhere just because? Or simply told her something kind?
Enough! Anthonys voice rose louder than he intended. Your life has always been perfect, perfect family, perfect father. Its easy for you to judge.
There was no real anger in the words, only a long-held hurt. He unclenched his hands.
Andrew did not move. He drew a slow breath and passed a hand across his face.
This isnt about perfection, he said gently but firmly. Its about choosing not to repeat someone elses mistakes.
Anthony spun toward the door, face tight with strain.
What does any of that have to do with it? he snapped. You cant know what its like to grow up feeling you dont matter to your own father!
And because of that youre making your own son feel the same? Andrew answered quietly. You say youre not like your father, yet youre acting exactly like him.
Anthony paused in the doorway, hand on the handle, then turned. The anger had drained away, leaving only confusion and something close to fear.
You just wont understand, he said, voice low and tired.
Understand what? That youre leaving your wife and small child because someone else came along? Andrew shook his head. Youre right. I cant.
Keep your lectures to yourself, Anthony said over his shoulder, and walked out, the door slamming behind him.
The sound rolled through the flat and left a heavy stillness. Andrew remained where he was, looking at the empty chair. He waited a moment, half expecting the door to open again, but nothing happened. He sat down on the sofa, rubbing his face, eyes closed, thoughts scattering like water on glass.
After a while Emma came in, wearing a dressing gown with a towel over her shoulders, fresh from the bath. She looked concerned, glancing at the open door and then at Andrew.
What happened? I heard shouting, she asked quietly, sitting beside him.
Andrew sighed. Anthonys leaving Sophie. Says he met someone else and wants a divorce.
Emma drew in a sharp breath, hand to her chest.
But they have a little boy! And they always seemed so happy together. We saw them at birthdays and parties
Exactly, Andrew said bitterly. And now hes doing what his father did, without even realising it. The same story, only now hes the one walking away.
Emma was quiet for a moment, thinking.
Maybe hes just lost, she suggested. Sometimes people cant see what they really want. Perhaps he thinks this is the only way to change things.
Andrew shook his head.
People get lost, he agreed. But he isnt even trying to find his way back. Hes repeating the very thing he always said he hated.
Outside the snow kept falling, covering the streets in white. The flat was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.
A week later Andrew and Emma stood at Sophies door. The wind was sharp, stirring the drifts. Emma carried a pie in a neat box tied with ribbon, not showy but enough to give a reason for the visit.
Andrew straightened his jacket, glanced at her, and rang the bell. A gentle chime sounded inside. After a moment the door opened a little. Sophie looked out, clearly surprised.
Andrew? Emma? What are you she began.
We just wanted to see how you are, Emma said gently, holding out the box. May we come in?
Sophie hesitated, then stepped back.
Of course. Please.
They followed her to the kitchen. The flat was unusually still. Sophie switched on the kettle and set out cups, her movements precise but distant, as if she were moving through a routine to keep steady.
Sit down, she said.
Emma placed the pie on the table and untied the ribbon. Sophie poured tea but left her own cup mostly untouched, turning it slowly between her palms.
How are you managing? Andrew asked carefully.
Sophie lifted one shoulder. Im getting by. Work helps. It leaves less time to think.
She paused, then added, Ethan doesnt fully understand yet. He asks where his dad is. I tell him Daddys working. I dont know if he believes it, but at least he doesnt cry.
Her voice caught on the last word. She smiled quickly, as if to show it wasnt so bad.
Emma reached over and touched Sophies hand, a quiet, steady gesture. Sophie squeezed her fingers in thanks, then looked down again.
If you need help with Ethan or anything else, just say, Emma said firmly but kindly. Were here.
Sophie raised her eyes. Tears welled and one slipped down her cheek, but she let it fall.
Thank you, she whispered. I didnt know who to turn to. Everything came at once and it felt like there was no one.
She took a breath. I used to think I had plenty of friends, but when I needed someone it turned out there was no one to ask.
Andrew leaned forward a little.
Come to us, he said. Any time. You dont even have to ask.
Sophie nodded, no longer trying to hold back the tears. They were tears of relief now, as if a heavy weight had finally found somewhere to rest.
Emma gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then reached for the pie.
Lets have some tea before it goes cold. And try the pie. I made it for you. I may have left it in the oven a bit long, but it still tastes all right.
The ordinary words helped Sophie steady herself. She wiped her face, managed a small smile, and picked up a spoon.
Three years later a sunny afternoon in the park felt almost unreal in its brightness. Five-year-old Ethan raced across the vivid grass, kicking a red ball, his laughter carrying along the paths. Emma sat on a bench, rocking a pram where their baby daughter slept, the breeze stirring the lace on her bonnet. Andrew sat beside her, watching the boy with quiet affection.
Hes grown so much, Emma said, glancing away from the pram for a moment. And so lively. Never still for a second.
Yes, Andrew nodded, following Ethan as he dodged an invisible opponent and cheered at an imaginary goal. Sophies doing well with him. You can see how much she puts into it.
Emma sighed. She is, but its hard. Especially when Anthony misses another birthday or cancels at the last minute. Yesterday he was meant to collect Ethan but sent a message at six in the morning saying something had come up at work.
Andrews expression darkened. Over the years the pattern had become familiar: Anthony would appear suddenly with expensive gifts bought in haste, or promise an outing and then cancel, or turn up unannounced mid-week for a brief serious talk before glancing at his watch and leaving again.
I tried speaking to him, Andrew admitted. Told him Ethan isnt a toy you can pick up and put down. That a child needs presence, not just presents. He just says I dont understand, that things are complicated right now.
Complicated for three years, Emma said quietly, sadly rather than angrily. Ethans old enough to notice. Yesterday he asked Sophie if his dad had stopped loving him. She could barely keep from crying.
Andrews hands tightened briefly on the bench.
Sometimes it feels as though Anthony refuses to see whats really happening. He used to swear hed never be like his father, that he knew what it was like to have a dad who turned up once in a while with sweets and then vanished. And now
Now hes exactly the same, Emma finished gently. And he justifies it by saying hes finding himself or trying to sort his life out, when really hes just avoiding what matters.
Ethan ran up, flushed and breathless, hair messy.
Uncle Andrew, look what I can do! he shouted, showing a new trick with the ball, then dashed off again without waiting.
Emma watched him with warm fondness.
Its good he has you. At least one adult is always there. He feels it. To him youre the one who doesnt disappear or forget.
Andrew nodded, eyes still on the boy. A quiet resolve settled in him. If Anthony would not be a father, then he would make sure Ethan never felt abandoned. The old pattern would not repeat itself here.
The sun continued to shine, Ethan laughed, the pram rocked gently, and Andrew felt the certainty grow stronger: he would do whatever it took so the boy grew up knowing there were people who stayed. Children need not a perfect past, but a present where someone remains.
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