When the Train Has Already Departed

When the train had already pulled away

David, can you hear yourself? So Im supposed to wait until Im forty to fix the mistakes of your youth? And why should I be the one to pay for the fact that you found your garage more interesting than your own son? Emma asked, her voice full of genuine bewilderment.

Love, stop the melodrama! I pressed on. I was foolish, didnt value what I had, didnt realise what I was losing. And now everythings gone. James doesnt even see me as his father.

And whats wrong with that? Emma smirked bitterly. He spent seventeen years not with his dad but with the neighbour next door. Did you really think you could switch a child on and off like a telly when you felt like playing dad for a bit?

I darkened, my brows knitting together. A familiar flash of irritation rose in my eyes the same look Emma always catches when Im forced to face my paternal duties.

Emma, enough! Those are things of the past. Give me one more chance, I pleaded stubbornly.

So I can have a fling and dump everything on me while another kid grows up fatherless? Emma crossed her arms over her chest. Thanks, Ive had enough. No, David, this isnt up for discussion.

My face twisted into a mask of wounded pride and anger. I had no reply, so I huffed and buried my face in my phone.

The fight was over for now. The problem, however, lingered. Emmas heart was left with a heavy aftertaste, not because of my absurd demands but because of our son, James.

Emma was twentythree when James was born. She still recalls standing outside the Manchester Maternity Hospital, exhausted yet thrilled, cradling a tiny bundle swaddled in a white blanket. I hovered nearby like a buzzard, never moving a step away. I beamed with joy, straightening the blanket now and then, planting kisses on Emmas forehead, and, on rare occasions, lifting James reverently into my arms.

Hes just like me! With that little dimple on his chin, I gushed, eyes sparkling. Im a dad now, Emma. I finally get it. Ill do everything with himwalks, diaper changes, teaching him to kick a football Ill be the best father in the world, youll see!

Emma looked at me with the same bright hope. She believed every word, convinced wed have a pictureperfect family full of love, care and shared joy.

Reality, as it often does, turned out to be far more prosaic and harsh.

It was a deep night. Emma, dark circles under her eyes, paced the bedroom, rocking the wailing infant for the third time that evening. I tossed restlessly in the bed, the blanket pulled over my head.

Put him down, will you? I hissed softly. Ive got work in the morning, need to get up early!

In those moments Emma slipped into the spare room, tears of helplessness glistening. The baby screamed even louder, wanting to stay in the bedroom, but she had no choice. She shut the door and rocked James for hours, just to give me a chance to sleep.

Weekend came. Exhausted after a week without proper rest, Emma meekly asked:

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

Emma, later, okay? Ive got plans. The lads promised to bring a car, well be fixing it.

But I cant

Youre strong, love. Youll manage. Ill be back and help.

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

Time passed. James grew. I tried to forge any bond between father and son. One afternoon I was slumped in the armchair watching the footie, and Emma handed me the rosycheeked little man, clutching at my hand.

Take him, spend a bit of time with him, she pleaded, not for a break but to stitch our family together.

I took James reluctantly, as if someone had handed me a suspicious parcel. I held him on outstretched arms, barely pressing him to my chest, eyes fixed on the TV. A minute or two later I set him carelessly on the carpet and turned back to the match.

James was five now, building a tower of blocks on the livingroom floor. I walked past him to the sofa, not even glancing his way. He didnt look up either; hed grown accustomed to my absence.

I wasnt a completely useless husband. I brought home the money, helped Emma with meals and the cleaning. But I missed Jamess childhood entirely. No wonder, as he grew older, he never saw me as a dad.

James, hows school going? I asked one day.

Uh fine, he muttered, looking bewildered.

And the grades? Hope theyre good? I persisted. If you need anything, let me know. I can give you a tip. Educations important; I dont want my son ending up as a gardener.

No, Dad, thanks. All good, James replied, darting off to his room.

We could go fishing this weekend if you like! I called after him.

He never answered. Only Emma knew that his school was hosting a disco, that hed asked a classmate he liked to dance, and that shed turned him down. He also knew he had no interest in fishing at all.

The train had left. James was no longer that little boy yearning for his fathers attention. The childhood I wanted to make up for was gone forever. When I finally realised this, I yearned for a clean slate a second child. Emma, whod endured every sleepless night, was staunchly opposed.

Soon the whole family learned of our disputes.

Sweetheart, Ive heard it all, David told me everything. Listen to your mother, have another baby. Hes changed, grown up! Dont deprive him of a second chance. Itll be a joy to raise another little one! my motherinlaw urged.

She added her own spin.

Emma, if you dont have another, you might lose him. He dreams of being a dad. If you dont, someone else will. Think of the future. Your first son will soon fly the nest, and a second will cement your marriage, giving you support in old age.

Hearing this from other women doubled Emmas hurt. It felt as if my body and life had become a pawn in some mad barter. Everyone saw me only as a mother and wife, not as the exhausted woman whod already walked this road and remembered how it ended.

In desperation Emma concocted a plan, half absurd but perfectly illustrative. She dug through the attic, found an old box of Jamess baby stuff, and uncovered a dusty but stillworking Tamagotchi a tiny electronic pet that needed feeding, playing with, medicating and cleaning.

When I returned from work, Emma handed me a little plastic egg with a tiny grey screen.

Whats this? I asked, puzzled, examining the gift.

Its your trial period. Try out at least a tenth of what fatherhood will demand. You have to feed this thing on schedule, press buttons, keep it happy. Mess up and itll whine. If after a year its still alive, Ill believe youre ready for a real child.

I stared at her, then burst out laughing, thinking it a joke. But her deadpan expression turned my amusement into irritation.

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

Start here. If you cant manage this thing, how could you handle a real baby?

I smirked, tucking the Tamagotchi into my pocket, treating it as a trifle. The first three nights I rose to feed the virtual pet. By the fifth, I was annoyed but didnt quit. After a week I complained that the lack of sleep was affecting my job.

On the eighth day, I tossed the Tamagotchi onto the kitchen table. A big red X flashed on the screen Id failed.

Forgot to feed it. Work was a nightmare, I muttered, avoiding Emmas eyes.

The arguments didnt cease, but they softened. Misunderstanding and resentment lingered, yet I no longer pressed my point with such zeal.

Three years later everything fell into place. James, now a university student, brought his girlfriend home, announcing they were expecting.

My enthusiasm resurfaced. I talked about a second chance, this time as a grandfather. I bought a pram with money Id saved, splurged on baby overalls a size too big, and loaded up on LEGO sets with tiny pieces. I swore Id be the best granddad ever, always there to help, walk and play.

Emma watched all this with healthy scepticism.

When the grandchild arrived, the pattern repeated. In the first weeks I was all over the place, rocking the baby, snapping photos, acting the doting granddad. But as the initial thrill faded, so did my zeal. At my urging, the young couple moved into a rented flat, and my help was reduced to occasional, meticulously planned weekend visits, when the baby was fed, changed and in a good mood. The moment the infant whined, I found an urgent work call, a meeting, or a trip to my motherinlaws cottage.

Emma stepped in, taking stock of the whole scene my son and his weary partner and realised shed made the right call. James grew into a caring, responsible man who never left his wife to fend for herself. I, on the other hand, remained the man who loved the idea of being a father more than the reality of it.