Dad’s Adventures

Dad. Prove to me youre my son, he blurted out one afternoon.

I could have given him a good kick onto the stair landing, but instead a question slipped from his mouth:

How?

Buy me a house, he said.

***

Outside the maternity ward at St. Marys Hospital the scene was the one Id seen a hundred times. Tom Fletcher, his face caught midwonder, stood on the steps by the entrance, camera dangling from his neck. A crowd of his mates lingered behind him. Emma, cradling their newborn, beamed at him with every one of her thirtytwo teeth.

Hows the little one? Tom asked, his voice hoarse from the nightlong drive to fetch his wife and son. Hed barely slept these past few nights, his nerves frayed. When Emma went into labour, sleep was the last thing on his mind; he kept ringing the hospital, worrying that something might go wrong. When they told him there were complications, Toms composure shattered and he rushed straight there. Hed been on duty at the ward for days now, and the lack of rest was finally catching up with him.

Emma lifted the blanket, revealing the tiny face of baby James, swaddled and asleep, still unfamiliar with his father. Hell meet me when he wakes, Tom said.

Ill look just the same in the baby pictures, Tom added.

Spot on! Emma exclaimed, eyes bright. Your nose, your lips a perfect copy!

Tom could not tear his gaze away and nodded at every word.

James Fletcher, Tom announced solemnly, welcome to the world and to our family, of course.

James, for his part, awoke frowning, his little lips puckering in protest, clearly not thrilled with the fanfare.

The birth was a celebration. Their flat was plastered with flowers and presents. Guests marveled at how James resembled his father. Tom spent the whole day holding the baby, only stepping away to feed Emma. They were happy then.

***

Sixteen years later.

Life had become as sticky as quicksand. Romance had evaporated, leaving only the lingering scent of overcooked chips and mismatched socks strewn across the house. Arguments were now routine over money, over how to raise the boy, over who should take out the rubbish. Tom and Emma had learned to pick quarrels in the most harmless of situations.

James was their anchor, the thing that still kept the family afloat. Without him, they might have split long ago. The boy loved his mother, reached for his father, and they still shared something when they raised a child together.

James not only looked like Tom, hed taken up football. Tom, a former athlete himself, drove him to training. When there was no practice, theyd head out to the garden with a ball. As a father, Tom did his best.

When James turned sixteen, Tom was set to travel to his mothers cottage in the Cotswolds a yearly pilgrimage hed never taken James on.

What will we do then? James asked his mother after Tom left.

Nothing much, Emma shrugged. Its your holidays, enjoy them. Youve passed your exams. Ill be on leave soon, well figure something out.

Mum, Ive asked before and you always brushed it off, but why never visit Grandma and Granddad? James pressed, eyes searching. Ive never even seen them.

Emma was taken aback. Shed assumed hed simply outgrown the question.

Well she began hesitantly, its just how it turned out. I never really got along with your grandparents. They never liked me much.

Why? James persisted.

They were against us from the start, thought I wasnt good enough for Tom. It never mended, and they never wanted me around.

And Im just what, a stranger to them?

In short, youre not their daughterinlaw, Im not their grandson. Dont take it personally.

What, am I a child? James muttered, a flicker of hurt crossing his face. It didnt break him, but the seed was planted.

When Tom returned from the Cotswolds, something in him had shifted. Outwardly, he seemed the same, but the years of bickering with Emma had altered his attitude toward James.

Usually on Fridays Tom and James would head to a training session. This time Tom said, Im not going today. Go alone.

James was surprised but brushed it off. A week later Tom declined again, then again the following Friday, and soon the visits grew sparse.

Tom began snapping, answering in monosyllables or ignoring James altogether. When James tried to start a conversation, Tom was either busy or tossed back a dismissive, Youre sixteen, sort your own problems, spend time with your mates.

Then one evening Tom snapped, Youre not my son.

James sat frozen. Was it a joke? He searched Toms eyes for a hint of humor, but only a cold hostility met his gaze.

Emma gasped. Tom! What are you saying?

Im telling the truth, Tom replied flatly. Hes not my son. You thought no one would find out? Everyone knows!

James clenched his fists, ready to fight. Emma tried to calm him, saying Tom was just tired, in a sour mood. But James could not understand how his father could now deny the very bond theyd shared his whole life.

Since youre not my son, youre not my father either! Tom shouted.

James, stop, please Emma pleaded. Dads just angry, hell apologise later.

The situation worsened daily. No amount of pleading worked; Emmas voice grew hoarse from constant accusations I dont want to feed another mans child anymore. James oscillated between fury and tears. Emma, exhausted by watching her son crumble, finally filed for divorce.

Tom was forced out of the house that still bore Emmas name. He left, divorced, head held high.

How could a man who had been a loving father, ever so present, turn into a bitter stranger who could not even look at his own son within a single year?

James could not grasp it.

Mum, tell me straight are you hiding something? Am I not really your son? Or am I adopted?

James, youre our son. Not adopted. And you know the truth. I think I suppose that while Tom was staying with his parents in the village, they might have whispered something about me. The same happened when we first met. Thats why I never crossed paths with them again.

James fell silent, chewing over the words.

Why didnt they tell me sooner? Why didnt Tom think about this all these years? Did they say it before and it only stuck now?

Emma shrugged, equally baffled. She had even suggested a paternity test, which Tom refused.

James stopped reaching for his father. How could he seek someone who kept pushing him away? Both father and son drifted apart, greeting each other with a dry nod if they ever met in a shop.

From sixteen onward James lived essentially fatherless. It seemed everything before was a dream. Tom resurfaced once, after Emma remarried, sending James a brief message:

See, I was right.

About what? James typed back, but could not send it; Tom had already blocked him. A grownup move, indeed.

When James turned thirty, he decided it was time to settle the past. He called his father.

Hey, James said, trying to sound casual. How are you?

Hello, Tom replied, his voice flat. Nothing much.

Id like you to come over, James said. Lets talk. If not as father and son, then as old friends.

Tom agreed and arrived. James met him at the door, led him to the sitting room, and they both sank onto the couch. Silence hung between them.

So, how have you been? James asked, attempting small talk.

Fine, Tom answered, eyes fixed elsewhere.

Ive wanted to say so many things James began, then stopped. I just want to understand why you said I wasnt your son. We look alike as two drops of water.

Toms reply was simple.

Even now, I think that way, he said. Fourteen years havent erased the memory.

Why? James pressed. You refused the test, yet youre sure Im not yours?

Tom shrugged. Just feels that way.

How can you feel that? You were my father all my life! James exclaimed. You drove me to training, you

What difference does it make now? That was then, Tom said. I dont think I owe you an explanation. I used to consider you my son.

And now? James asked.

I dont know, Tom said, spreading his arms. I just dont believe.

Dont believe? James slammed his fist on the armrest. Thats why you left? Youre wrong. You are my father, you know that.

Tom fell silent, then suddenly blurted, Prove youre my son.

I should have kicked him onto the stairwell then, but instead the words came out: How?

Buy me a house, Tom said. A loving son would do nothing for his old father. Get me a house, and Ill believe were a family. Ive spent fourteen years hearing empty talk about being kin. Youre grown, yet you havent done anything for me.

James stared, stunned. Was this mockery? A cruel test? Or simply a desperate attempt to squeeze something out of him while he could?

You serious? he asked.

Absolutely, Tom nodded. If youre my son, helping an elderly parent is only natural.

James saw the absurdity, yet deep down, since that summer hed always believed things could be right again, even if it took years. He looked at a man who no longer seemed his father, unsure what to say.

The conversation ended with nothing resolved. Tom drained half a bottle of wine and left.

James was left with another bottle, still unopened.

What was he to do? Buy a house? Take a mortgage? Spend years of his life proving himself to a man who refused to acknowledge him? Was it worth it?

James thought it over, weighing every pro and con. In the end he decided he didnt need to. Hed grown up, lived a whole life without a father, and could keep going.

Fine, Ill get you a house, he whispered. Whatever. Keep your pockets wide.

***

Later James moved to Italy, met a woman whod also just arrived, and they had a daughter. They eventually returned to England. James finally bought a house for himself not for any demanding relative. He no longer missed his father; the chapter was closed.

Then, out of the blue, the phone rang.

Its Tom, a hesitant voice said. I wanted to know how are you? Where do you live?

Yes, Im back, James replied.

Congratulations on your wedding, and on your daughter, even if Im a bit late, Tom continued.

Thanks, James answered.

Could I come over? See you, see my granddaughter talk?

James felt the moment hed long sensed was arriving.

Do you want to keep in touch?

Yes.

Then prove it, Tom said.

What should I prove? Tom asked, confused.

That youre my father, James replied.