28October2025
The moment I stepped into the flat the scent of damp shoes and a halfdry coat hung on the lower hookmy sons spot left empty. He slipped in almost silently, shortcropped, neatly dressed in a dark jacket. I saw his eyes had changed; not hard, but wary. I hurriedly smoothed the welcome mat by the door and offered a small smile.
Come in everythings ready. Ive aired your room and put fresh sheets on the bed, I said.
He gave a brief nodwhether out of gratitude or simple politeness I could not tell. He set his suitcase against the wall, lingered in the doorway, and stared at the faded diamondpattern wallpaper and the shelf of his childhood books. It all seemed as it had been, except the air felt cooler; the central heating had been switched off a week ago.
In the kitchen I laid out plates: his favourite vegetable soup, and buttered potatoes with parsley from the market. I tried to keep my tone even.
You could have called earlier I was expecting you at the station, I said.
He shrugged.
I thought Id get there myself.
A pause stretched; the only sound was the soft clink of a spoon against the bowl. He ate slowly, almost wordless, replying shortly about the drive and the basethe sergeant was a decent bloke. I caught myself looking for a reason to ask about his future, but I didnt dare bring up his job or plans directly.
After dinner I cleared the dishes; the familiar rhythm of my hands soothed me more than any conversation could. He retreated to his room, the door left ajar, revealing only the back of a chair and the edge of his suitcase.
Later, he went to the tap for a glass of water and paused by the livingroom window. A gentle draft from the cracked window reminded me of early summer: the sun lingered, casting a soft glow over the sill and the potted herbs.
The next morning I woke before him, hearing his quiet breathing through the thin bedroom wall, trying not to make extra noise with the crockery. The flat felt tighter: his belongings had reclaimed their old spots in the hallway and bathroom; the toothbrush beside my battered mug looked oddly bright.
He spent most of the day at his computer or scrolling on his phone, emerging only for breakfast or lunch. I attempted small talk about the weather or the neighbours; he answered with vague comments before slipping back into his own world.
One afternoon I bought fresh dill and spring onions at the stall.
Lookyour favourite herbs, I said.
He glanced absentmindedly.
Thanks maybe later?
The herbs wilted quickly on the table; the flat grew warmer as evening fell, and I hesitated to open the windows fullyhed always hated drafts.
Evenings were marked by awkward silences stretching longer than our conversations. He seldom praised the food, often just eating in silence or asking to leave the plate for tomorrowhed lost his appetite. Occasionally he forgot to put his mug away or left the bread tin open after a midnight snack.
I noticed these slips; he used to clear the table without prompting. Now it felt odd to correct a grown man, so I simply wiped the crumbs myself.
Little things multiplied unnoticed: the towel vanished from the bathroomhed taken it to his room; the mailbox key was misplacedboth of us rummaged through piles of parcels and bills.
One morning I opened the empty bread tin.
We should buy some bread, I murmured.
He muttered from his room, Fine
I planned to shop after work, but a long queue at the chemist delayed me, and I returned home exhausted by dusk.
He was by the fridge, phone in hand. I opened the tin automatically; it was empty. I sighed wearily.
You said youd get the bread, didnt you? I asked.
He turned sharply, voice louder than usual.
Forgot! Ive got other things on my mind!
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks; irritation spilled out despite my fatigue.
Of course you always forget! I snapped.
Our voices rose, the cramped kitchen felt suffocating. Each of us tried to prove our point, yet beneath it all lay a deeper breathlessness: tiredness of his long service, mine of the daily grind, fear of losing the closeness that had once seemed effortless.
The flat fell quiet, as if the energy expelled in the argument evaporated into the night air. The desk lamp cast a dim shadow over the bare bread tin. I lay on my back, listening to the occasional click of a switch, the distant hum of water in the bathroom. He moved cautiously, as if afraid to disturb the walls that now felt both familiar and alien.
I recalled conversations before his deploymentthings were simpler then; I could ask directly, scold him for forgotten rubbish, or tease him for being late to dinner. Now every word felt risky: I didnt want to offend, to upset the fragile balance. Behind the clash lay exhaustionmy own after a long workday and his after months of silence behind four walls.
It was nearly two in the morning when I heard soft footsteps down the corridor. The kitchen door creaked; he poured water from a jug. I propped myself on my elbow, torn between staying in bed and getting up. I chose the latter, slipped into a robe and padded barefoot across the cool floor.
The kitchen smelled of damp clothId wiped the counter the night before. He stood by the window, back to the door, shoulders slightly slumped, a glass clenched in his hand.
Cant sleep? I asked quietly.
He flinched just a fraction, not turning immediately.
Neither can I, I whispered.
Silence hung between us, dense as a knot, broken only by a droplet sliding down the glass.
Sorry about this evening I raised my voice for nothing, I said. Youre tired and Im tired too.
He turned slowly.
Im to blame everything just feels strange now.
His voice was hoarse from disuse; he avoided my eyes.
We fell quiet again, but the tension eased with those simple words. I sat opposite him, pushing a tin of tea toward himan automatic, soothing gesture.
Youre an adult now, I said gently. I need to learn to give you a bit more space Im scared of dropping the ball or doing something wrong.
He looked at me intently.
Im still figuring out how to be here back at the base it was: orders given, jobs done. At home its different. It feels like the rules have changed without me.
I smiled at the corners of my mouth.
Were both learning to live together again perhaps we should agree on a few things?
He shrugged.
Could try.
That readiness gave me relief. We agreed out loud that hed buy bread every other day, Id handle the dishes after dinner, and wed each have a quiet evening with no questions about where we were going. Both of us understood this was just the start of adjustments, but the honesty mattered.
I asked about his plans.
You were thinking of looking for work? Do you still have your service discharge papers?
He nodded.
Yes. The discharge was given right after I left the army; its in my rucksack with the service certificate just not sure where to head next.
I thought of the local Jobcentre, mentioned the free advice sessions and programmes for veterans.
Do you think we should go there? I asked.
He hesitated.
Maybe?
I shook my head.
Why not? If you like, I can go with you in the morning, keep you company, or help sort the paperwork.
He considered it, then said, Lets try together first.
The kitchen warmed a littleperhaps because we turned off the stove light, leaving only the soft lamp glow, perhaps because, for the first time in days, we spoke calmly and truthfully. Outside, the streetlights of neighbouring houses flickered in the darkness; some people were still up in these small flats of early spring.
When the conversation ended on its own, we cleared the cups and wiped the counter with a damp cloth.
Morning arrived with gentle light through the heavy curtains; the city stirred slowly, schoolchildrens chatter drifted from the courtyard, and birds chirped by the open kitchen window. This time, opening the windows no longer felt threatening. The air was a touch warmer, the nights chill gone with the anxiety of the previous days.
I set the kettle on and pulled a packet of oat biscuits for breakfast instead of the missing loaf. On the table lay his documents: the service discharge in a red folder, the certificate, and his passport. I stared at them calmlynow they signalled a new chapter for my son, beginning here and now.
He shuffled out of his room, still halfasleep but without the previous distance, sat opposite me and gave a brief smile.
Thanks, he said.
I replied simply, Shall we go together today?
He nodded. That yes meant more to me than any promise could.
Lesson: sometimes the hardest battles are not fought on distant fields but in the quiet rooms of home, where patience, honesty and a willingness to share the load become the true uniform of peace.
