28April2025
Today marked the birth of my little Poppy. When my motherinlaw, Eleanor Whitaker, tossed the ultrasound photos onto the kitchen table I could hear the familiar sarcasm in her voice. Another girl? What a joke! she said, shaking her head. Four generations of men in this family have worked on the railways, and now you bring home a daughter? What use will she have?
Helen, my wife, simply brushed the babys belly and whispered, Poppy. I could hear the tenderness in her tone as she added, We shall call her Poppy.
Eleanor sighed, Poppy at least its a decent name. But what will she do? Who will need a Poppy? I stared at my phone, silent. When Helen asked my opinion, I shrugged. Whats there to say? Maybe the next one will be a boy. The thought of another child felt like a distant promise, not a looming reality.
Poppy arrived in January, a tiny bundle with big eyes and a tuft of dark hair. I only made it to the maternity ward to hand over a bouquet of carnations and a small bag of baby supplies. Shes lovely, I said, peering gently into the pram. She looks a lot like you.
Helen smirked, And youve got that stubborn chin, too. I waved it off. All babies are the same at that age.
Eleanor met us at the door, her face sour. The neighbour, Valerie, asked whether it was a grandson or a granddaughter. I felt embarrassed to answer. At my age Im left with nothing but dolls to keep me company Helen withdrew into the nursery and wept quietly, cradling our newborn.
My work on the railway line has become relentless. I pick up extra shifts on nearby sections, staying later and coming home exhausted, silent, and often missing dinner. Helen would call out, Shes waiting for you, James. Shed watch Poppy turn her head toward the hallway the moment my footsteps echoed. She always lights up when she hears you, shed say.
One evening I passed by without even looking at her. Im tired, Helen. Ill be at work early tomorrow. She snapped, But you havent even said goodmorning to her. I retorted, Shes too small to understand. Yet Poppy seemed to understand, turning her head toward the door as my steps faded.
At eight months Poppy fell ill. Her temperature spiked to 38°C, then 39°C. I called an ambulance, but the doctor advised us to keep her at home with fever reducers. By morning it rose to 40°C. Helen shouted, James, get up! Poppys really ill! I groggily opened my eyes. What time is it? I mumbled. Seven. Ive been up all night with her. We need to go to hospital. I suggested waiting until the evening, mentioning an important shift, but Helen stared at me as if I were a stranger. Your daughter is burning with fever and youre thinking about work? she asked. Shes not dying. Kids get sick all the time, I replied, trying to stay calm.
I called the hospital myself; the staff placed Poppy in an isolation ward, suspecting a serious infection that required a lumbar puncture. The head of the department asked, Wheres the father? We need consent from both parents. Helen tried to phone me all day, but my line was switched off. At 7p.m. I finally answered. Helen, Im in the depot, busy
James, Poppy has meningitis! The doctors need your consent for the puncture now! she cried. What puncture? I dont understand
Come immediately! she pleaded. I cant, I have a shift until eleven. Ill sort it with the lads later I hung up, and the line went dead.
In the end Helen signed the consent alone; as mother she was entitled. The procedure was done under general anaesthetic. Poppy looked so tiny on the operating table. The doctor said the results would be ready the next day. If meningitis were confirmed, shed need a month and a half in a ward.
That night I stayed in the hospital while Poppy lay under an IV drip, pale and still, her chest rising only faintly. The following afternoon I arrived for lunch, looking dishevelled. Hows she? I asked, hesitant. Not good, Helen replied shortly. The test results arent back yet. I inquired about the procedure. A lumbar puncture they took fluid from her spine for analysis. My face went white. Did it hurt?
No, she was under anaesthetic. I stood by her bedside, watching her tiny hand clutch the blanket, a catheter attached to her wrist. Shes so small, I muttered, stunned by my own indifference.
The analysis came back negative for meningitis just a severe viral infection with complications. The doctor said she could recover at home under supervision. Lucky you, the department head remarked. A day or twos delay could have made things far worse.
On the drive home I was silent. When we finally pulled into the driveway, I asked quietly, Am I really that bad a father? Helen adjusted Poppys blanket and looked at me. What do you think? she asked. I used to think there was plenty of time, that she was too little to notice anything. But seeing her there, tubes and all, I realised I could lose her and I have something to lose. She smiled, She needs a father, not just a provider. Someone who knows her favourite toys, who can name them.
What are they? I asked softly. A rubber hedgehog and a little jingle bell toy. When you come home she always crawls to the door, waiting for you to pick her up. I lowered my head. I didnt know.
Now you do.
At home Poppy woke and began to wail, a thin, plaintive cry. I reached for her instinctively but paused. May I? I asked Helen. Shes your daughter. I lifted her carefully; she sniffed and then stared at my face with serious, wide eyes. Hello, little one, I whispered. Im sorry I wasnt there when you were scared. She pressed her tiny hand to my cheek and, for the first time, said clearly, Daddy.
That was her first word. Helens eyes widened. Shes been trying for a week, but only when youre not home, she laughed. She was waiting for the right moment.
Later, as Poppy fell asleep on my shoulder, I carried her back to her cot. She clutched my finger tighter in her sleep. She doesnt want to let go, I remarked, puzzled. Helen explained, She fears youll disappear again. I sat by her bedside for half an hour, unwilling to release my grip.
Ill take a day off tomorrow, and the next, I told Helen. I want to know my daughter better. And the extra shifts? she asked. Well find another way to earn, or live more modestly. The important thing is not to miss how she grows. She embraced me, saying, Better late than never. I whispered, Id never forgive myself if something happened and I never knew her favourite toys or that she could say Dad.
A week later, fully recovered, we walked in the park. Poppy perched on my shoulders, giggling as she grabbed at the autumn leaves. Look, Poppy, the maples are gorgeous, and theres a squirrel! Helen walked beside us, thinking how sometimes it takes the threat of loss to realise what truly matters.
Eleanor met us at the door with a scowl. Valerie told me her grandson already plays football. And your just dolls? I replied calmly, setting a rubber hedgehog in Poppys hands. Dolls are wonderful too. She muttered something about the family line breaking, but Poppy crawled up to her, exclaimed Gran! and beamed. Eleanor, bewildered, held her up. Shes talking! she gasped. Our Poppy is clever, I said proudly. Right, love? Poppy clapped her hands, shouting Daddy! with delight.
Later that night, as I sang a lullaby, my voice hoarse but steady, Helen noted, You never sang to her before. I admitted, I missed a lot before, but now I have time to make up for it. Poppy fell asleep, clutching my finger, smiling in her dreams, sure that her dad would never leave.
This diary entry reminds me that a fathers role is far more than providing a paycheck. It is about being present, learning the small things that light a childs world, and never taking for granted the chance to hear that first word. The lesson I carry forward is simple: cherish the moments now, for they are the ones that shape the life youll ever love.
