Daddy's Home

I shouldn’t be here.

It’s all a lie, and I’m the biggest liar of all. I swallow the bile rising in my throat and clench my carry-on tightly—anything to stop my hands from shaking.

Heat ripples off the tarmac, and I’m sweating as I deplane. But the rising discomfort is nothing compared with the sickening knot in my stomach. I glance at the small crowd of greeters standing a few feet from the Hercules’s rear ramp, half wishing I were somewhere else.

Part of me is excited. The whole fantasy life is rushing towards its conclusion, and I’m about to meet my wife and son.

There have been a great deal of tear stains on the agonising letters between us. Her longing, waiting, anticipation, and my hoping, wishing and wanting ... pretending.

I shouldn’t be here. I’m not the same man.

Sargent Paul Wilmot died long ago, and I have lived as him for so long now—reading his letters, replying with love and kisses… I almost believed I was him.

How will the next few minutes play out?

I see a kid squirming in his mother’s arms, eager to run to his daddy and jump into his embrace. Poor little blighter, he doesn’t recognise me, just believes.

My eyes flick to his mother. She’s everything I could hope for. The pain in my chest takes my breath away. I know my ears are burning bright red, and I have to knuckle the tears from my eyes. Damn you to hell, I whisper.

I see her hesitate, frown, unsure, but the sun is in her eyes. She shakes herself and takes a deep breath.

I shouldn’t be here. She knows.

We stare at each other, and with a nod, let the kid run to me. She’s made her choice. She, too, will believe against all odds for her family.

I shouldn’t be here, but I am.

Daddy’s home.

The End

C 2025