“You’re nothing to him,” said the ex-girlfriend, pulling her son onto her lap.
Oliver stood in the hallway with a bouquet of chrysanthemums hed bought at a Tube station stall, staring at the woman hed spent five years with. At little Alfie, who had only just learned to say “Daddy” but now hid his face in his mothers shoulder.
“How am I nothing?” Olivers voice cracked. “Ive raised him since he was a year old!”
“Raised him?” Emily adjusted Alfies shirt. “You played with him on weekends. Who stayed up all night when he was teething? Who took him to doctors appointments? Who worked two jobs just to afford nappies?”
Oliver wanted to argue that theyd been together then, that hed helped however he could, that his university degree had been like a job too. But the words stuck in his throat. Alfie peeked over his mothers shoulder, studying him as if he were a stranger.
“James and I are serious,” Emily continued. “Were moving in together. It makes him uncomfortable when you come around.”
“And what about Alfie?” Oliver set the flowers on the side table. “Hes used to me.”
“Alfie will get used to James. James wants to adopt him, give him his last name. Do you have any idea the opportunities thatll open for him? James is an MP.”
Oliver sat on the stool hed once assembled himself. His hands trembled, so he stuffed them into his jacket pockets.
“So what, I never see him again?”
“Why upset him?” Emily bounced Alfie on her knee. “James says its better to cut ties completely. So Alfie wont be confused about who his real dad is.”
“But Im not abandoning him! I send money, I buy him gifts”
“Twenty quid a month?” Emily scoffed. “James earns that in an hour.”
Alfie suddenly slid off her lap and toddled over to Oliver. He held out a chubby little hand.
“Give,” he said.
“Give what?” Oliver frowned.
“Give sweet,” Alfie clarified, peering up at him.
Oliver dug in his pockets and pulled out a mint humbug. Alfie took it, unwrapped it with deep concentration, and popped it in his mouth. Then he climbed onto Olivers lap.
“Dont encourage him,” Emily snapped. “Alfie, come here.”
“Dont wanna,” the boy mumbled, wrapping his arms around Olivers neck.
Emily stood up, tried to pull him away, but Alfie clung tighter.
“Look what youre doing!” she hissed. “Youre upsetting him!”
“Its not me upsetting him,” Oliver said quietly. “Alfie, want to see the toy car I got you?”
“What car?” Emilys brow furrowed. “I told you not to buy him things!”
“Red one?” Alfie asked.
“Red one,” Oliver nodded, pulling a toy lorry from the bag.
The boy scrambled down, grabbed the car, and zoomed it across the floor, murmuring to himself.
“Emily, think about it,” Oliver stood. “He remembers me. Look how happy he is. Why take his dad away?”
“Youre not his dad!” she snapped. “A dad is someone who takes responsibility! What are you? A twenty-four-year-old graduate with no job, no prospects!”
“Ive got my degree”
“So what? Where are you working? Security for three hundred a week?” She marched into the kitchen; Oliver followed. “James rents us a three-bed flat in Kensington. Alfie will go to a proper school.”
The kitchen smelled of roast beef and fresh bread. Oliver remembered cooking in this tiny space, Emily teaching him to fry sausages, Alfie crawling underfoot.
“We said wed raise him together,” Oliver said. “Remember when we found out you were pregnant?”
“I was stupid back then!” Emily cut in. “Eighteen, full of silly romantic ideas. Now Ive grown up. I know what lifes really about.”
She yanked open the fridge, pulled out milk, her movements sharp.
“James is a proper man. He takes Alfie to his country house, the theatre. Buys him quality clothes, not market rubbish.”
“Im not rich,” Oliver admitted. “But I love him.”
“Love isnt enough,” Emily poured the milk. “A child needs stability. Security.”
Alfie raced in, pushing the car along the table.
“Uncle James says hes got loads of cars at his house,” he told Oliver. “And a bike!”
“See?” Emily said triumphantly. “Hes already adjusting.”
Oliver crouched beside Alfie.
“Remember when we went to the park, Alfie? Swings and ice cream?”
“Yeah,” Alfie nodded. “But Uncle James says ice creams bad.”
“Right, thats enough!” Emily scooped him up. “Oliver, time to go. James will be here soon.”
“Can I at least say goodbye?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
“Alfie, say bye to Uncle Oliver.”
“Hes not Uncle,” Alfie said suddenly. “Hes Daddy.”
The room went silent, thick with tension. Emily paled.
“No, Alfie. Uncle Oliver isnt Daddy. Daddy will be Uncle James.”
“Wheres my real daddy?” Alfie asked.
Olivers head spun. He knelt, looked the boy in the eye.
“Im your daddy, Alfie. Always will be.”
“No!” Emily cut in. “Stop it! Youre making it worse!”
The intercom buzzed. Emily flinched.
“Thats James. Oliver, leave through the back.”
“The back? Were on the third floor!”
“Then hide in the loo!” She fussed with her hair. “Alfie, dont say Uncle Oliver was here!”
“Why not?” Alfie blinked.
“Because Uncle James will be upset.”
Oliver watched her panic and realisedshe was afraid of James. Afraid hed find out.
“Go!” she hissed.
Oliver didnt move. He watched Alfie, sucking his sweet, pushing the car.
“Alfie,” he said softly.
The boy looked up.
“What?”
“I love you so much.”
“Love you too,” Alfie said solemnly.
The intercom buzzed again, impatient.
“Mum, whos that?” Alfie asked.
“Uncle James,” Emily said, then whispered to Oliver, “Please!”
Oliver stood, grabbed his jacket. At the door, he turned. Alfie stood in the middle of the kitchen, car in hand, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Daddy, you coming tomorrow?” he asked.
Emily froze, intercom in hand.
“Not tomorrow,” Oliver rasped.
“When then?”
“Dont know, mate.”
Alfie ran over, hugged his legs.
“Ill wait.”
Oliver lifted him, held him tight. Alfie smelled of baby shampoo and biscuits.
“Ill wait too,” he whispered.
Emily took Alfie back.
“Enough. James is coming up.”
Oliver stepped onto the landing. Old Mr. Thompson from next door sat smoking on the stairs.
“Got the boot, lad?” he asked sympathetically.
“Something like that.”
“Shame about the boy,” Mr. Thompson shook his head. “Good kid. Saw him yesterday with some bloke in a suit. Kept asking, Whens Uncle Oliver coming? Bloke said, Uncle Olivers not coming back.”
Oliver froze.
“He really said that?”
“Whyd I lie?” Mr. Thompson took a drag. “Kid misses you. But her” he jerked his chin at the flat, “shes got her head turned by this new chap. Women, eh? Just care about the money.”
Oliver walked slowly downstairs. Rain drizzled outside. He turned up his collar and headed for the Tube.
His mum met him at home.
“Well? Saw Alfie?”
“Emily wont let me anymore,” Oliver sighed, heading to his room. “Says her new blokes adopting him.”
“Good Lord,” his mum gasped. “Why didnt you say? Well go to court! Demand visitation!”
“Mum, Im not on the birth certificate. We never married.”
“But you acknowledged paternity! Its in the records!”
Oliver pulled out Alfies birth certificate. His name was there under “father.”
“That means youve got rights!” his mum insisted. “Well see a solicitor tomorrow!”
“Dont know, Mum,” Oliver said tiredly. “Maybe shes right. Maybe I really am nothing to him.”
“Nothing?” she huffed. “You saw how he clung to you! Hes your son!”
Oliver lay on the sofa, eyes closed. Alfies face floated in his mind. His words: “Ill wait.”
The next day, Oliver went to the solicitor. An older woman listened carefully
