The Best Day

Alex's father was very tall and very strong.

He could pick Alex up in his big hands and throw him in the air and Alex knew he would always be there to catch him. Sometimes, his father would let him sit on his shoulders and Alex was scared but he'd talk in a deep rumble which made him feel safe. His father talked a lot and Alex didn't understand the words but he knew the tone of his voice and he knew that one was good.

That was the tone he used when he sat in Alex's bed and read to him before he went to sleep and the one he used when he came home from being away. He left a lot, in the mornings when Alex was still sleepy, and Alex didn't understand why but he knew it was for a good reason. His father was warm and kind and right; he could never do anything bad.

Alex loved his mother, too. She was pretty and flowery and she was always there when he cried for her. But he was happiest when there was both his mother and his father and he thought they were, too. They would kiss him at the same time, and his father's face was scratchy while his mother's face was soft, and he'd giggle and they'd laugh as well. They would go to the park some days and he would run on chubby legs to feed the ducks. He ran faster than the wind but his father was always quicker and he'd catch Alex every time he tripped.

The water, beautiful and clear, was something he wanted to touch. But his father would lift him in the air before he could and, no matter how much Alex cried and screamed, his father never let him. No matter what he did, his father was cleverer. One time, he was alone with his mother and he reached the edge of the pond and she let out this loud yell that had him freezing. He didn't understand why she stopped him but she had shook and cried and sounded sad.

So Alex never touched the water.

That day, his mother kept him closer than ever. And, when his father came home, he had some little yellow ducks to put in the bath with him. He liked them and they would bob up even when he pushed them down and there was a special black one which would squirt water at him. It was funny. Together, they played until the water turned cold and the bubbles went away. Then, they wrapped him in a warm fluffy towel and they let him crawl into their bed and cuddle with them.

They were happy.

And then things changed.

Instead of his father tucking him into bed, it was his mother who came up the stairs and read the books his father had started. At the weekends, his father would sleep late into the morning and he would walk slower when they went out, breathing hard when he ran or picked Alex up. His strong arms, which had always been so warm, didn't grip him as tightly and Alex missed his hugs. He missed his father throwing him up in the air, when he'd felt so free and light, and had all of his attention just on him.

He hated the change.

As the weeks passed, Alex tried to play with his father like he used to but he wouldn't chase him or lift him up. He would make these soft noises of recognition but he barely moved in response and he would lie in the bed, getting paler and thinner. Even when Alex cried loudly and made the noises that had always had his father running, he didn't come. He wasn't there.

There was only one other thing that could work.

Alex made his way up the stairs and got the stool out from under the sink. He had to climb over the edge of the bath carefully and then he was sliding inside, his hands running over its smooth, slick walls. It was hard to get the water out at first and his hands were sore from the tap's ridges digging into them but then the water was pouring into the bath. It was coming too fast and it was so, so cold and Alex screamed for real this time, frightened.

But the water was greedy and it stole the noise from his mouth. Alex yelled, desperately grabbing at the sides but they were too slippery, and he didn't think anyone could hear him. His clothes were heavy and the water used them to pull him down further and then his whole head was dragged underneath. It was everywhere, in his ears and his nose and his mouth, and, when he opened his eyes, it was dark and scary and he couldn't see. He couldn't breathe.

The water wanted to steal him; he knew it would do anything to take him.

But his father was stronger. Alex was hauled out of the water and onto the stone floor, a hand hitting his back and forcing the water out of him finally. He coughed and spat it out angrily. The water was stupid to take him while he had his father's protection.

Until he realised it wasn't his father but his mother holding him.

And that was the day Alex learnt his father wasn't always going to be there to catch him.

Because his father was fighting something, too. Something much stronger and scarier than the water and it was making him weak and tired and it meant that Alex had to be brave for both of them. He spent more nights in their bed than not and he would pull the covers up to keep them warm, trying his best to read through the story books. He was older now and he knew that the fairytales all had happy endings and, if he just believed enough, they could have one, too.

He told his mother that, nodding earnestly, and she'd stroked his hair with tears in her eyes. She cried a lot these days, creeping out of bed when Alex was on the edge of sleep and coming back with wet eyes and wobbly smiles. More than anything, he wished he could make it better for her but he had to fight his father's sickness first.

He would do it, he was sure.

And then his father was taken to hospital and he could only stay with him for a few hours each day. Alex didn't want to leave him, not in that white room with the busy, fast people who wouldn't take the time to read him stories. No, he had to be there to protect him from the sickness. But they wouldn't let him visit past the afternoon apart from on that one night when he was woken up and they drove while it was dark. There was a vicar, his father's friend, waiting for them and a man in a white coat who told them his father wouldn't wake.

His mother had fallen to the floor, big fat tears rolling down her face, and she took these strange hitching breaths. And Alex had known this was the last test. If his father got over this, then he could beat the sickness forever and he'd be whole and well again and they could be happy like they were before. Alex begged him to be strong and clever like he knew he was. He held his hand, fingers thin and cold, and wished harder than he'd ever wished for anything in his life.

What he got was stiff new clothes and hard shoes that rubbed in the heel. He got his mother telling him he had to brave, again, and that his father would be proud. So he bit his lip and he resolutely didn't cry when he kissed his father's too smooth cheek for the last time. He didn't cry when they scattered the ashes into the ocean or when they returned to their home, cold and empty, or even when it was bedtime and his mother slept with him in his room.

He had to be brave.

Because his father wasn't there.

-*-

When Alex was older, he learnt it was breast cancer. Rare, with less than one percent of cases occurring in males, but it'd taken his father. There wasn't enough awareness at the time and, when he'd found the lump in his breast, he'd thought nothing of it, too busy to take the time off from work. By the time they'd realised what it was, it was incurable and it'd spread too far.

None of his fairytales would've done anything to save him.

And, while Alex was still hung up on it, the world moved on, His mother's friends encouraged her to date and she found comfort in the arms of a man. He would come to the house and call Alex 'Squirt' and bring him new toys and the special chocolates he loved so much. He wasn't his father but Alex thought he would be a good replacement and he made his mother smile and maybe they all could be happy together. So he put on those uncomfortable clothes again and he held the rings at the wedding and ate far too much cake.

They went away and left Alex with his grandparents for two whole weeks but then they came back and, for a time, things were good. Alex had two parents again who would give him kisses and hugs and all of their time but then his mother fell sick. She would rush to the bathroom in the mornings and Alex was scared the sickness was back, that it was going to steal his mother this time. She grew big and round, and she wouldn't play with him anymore, and the things she bought were no longer for him but 'the baby'. And he hated the baby for stealing that from him.

When she went to the hospital, like his father had, Alex had to wait outside in an uncomfortable plastic chair and he worried. She was stronger, though, and she fought it off and he saw her awake in the hospital bed with a bundle in her arms. It was ugly and pink and she called it Patrick like she didn't know the sickness had made it.

Alex knew he couldn't trust Patrick but no one else did.

His grandparents cooed over him and gave him clothes and new toys. When Alex cried at the unfairness, the baby cried louder, and his mother had looked between them both and she hadn't chosen Alex. Instead, it was the man who took him to a side room and told him he was a big brother and he had to be responsible and he tried, really, he did, but Patrick was noisy and stupid and slow. At seven years old, he was a spiteful, spoilt child who knew just how much his parents adored him and just how keenly Alex felt the loss of his. They'd fight often and Patrick would sneer at Alex's dead father and gloat that his parents were still alive, and they loved him more than they could love Alex. As a teenager of thirteen, Alex couldn't admit how much it'd hurt and he'd lashed out at everyone, refusing to call the man his dad again and referring to him as Daniel instead. Because Daniel was Patrick's father, not his, and he never would be.

They grounded him for a week but, for the first time, Alex didn't feel bad about it. He wasn't wrong.

His relationship with his mother and Daniel fractured and he spent more time at his friends' houses or in afterschool clubs where they'd talk about baby brothers and how awful they were. It was the worst when puberty hit and Daniel would tell him what he could and couldn't do when he had no right at all to do so. It was then when Alex most keenly felt the loss of his father, a hurt he'd been hiding for years, and they'd had furious, violent rows with slamming doors and broken glasses. it was hurting his mother, he knew, so, the next time it happened, Alex didn't stay to listen and he left the house and went to the arcade for a few hours. That was the day when she'd screamed at him, too, and Alex hadn't understood why. He just knew she wasn't on his side anymore.

When university came calling, Alex eagerly went as far as he could, to Scotland, and he spent the Christmas of his first year in the beautiful city of Edinburgh. Most of his flatmates had gone home but he'd found a large community of international students who'd stayed and he learnt about their traditions and cultures. It was far better than the stilted conversation and dry turkey of Christmases past. There was an Italian boy called Francisco who kissed him as they rang in the New Year and they didn't last long but they had fun.

Alex met Scotty in the summer, after they'd finished exams for the year, and it was a wild night of celebration with alcohol flowing and music pumping till four in the morning. They'd talked for a bit and Scotty was the kind of nice Alex didn't deserve but he'd wanted and they'd fell into bed together. They shouldn't have worked but, seven years, four flats and six different jobs later, they were getting married. It wasn't a big wedding, just forty or so people, but it was the best day of Alex's life and the unconditional love and affection of Scotty's family made up for the empty spaces on his side. Maybe it wasn't fair not to invite them but Alex hadn't spoken to Daniel or Patrick in years and he knew his mother wouldn't come without them. It was easier, really, not to tell her.

And, when they got Maya and her little brother, Jackson, he couldn't tell her, either.

There were times he wanted to, when she talked to him about Daniel's projects in his retirement or Patrick's most recent promotion, but he didn't know how to say he'd got married and created a life for himself without her in it. He couldn't do that, not when he knew it'd hurt her. Because, for all their relationship had been rocky, he could recognise as an adult and a parent that she'd done the best she could. She hadn't known how harmful it was for him to see Patrick have his real parents around and he hadn't exactly told her in the best ways.

In the end, what forced Alex's hand was the very thing that'd started it all. He got dressed one morning and found a lump under his breast and, suddenly, all the small things that he'd held onto in the past paled into insignificance. He made a decision then, regardless of what the doctor said, that he'd spend however much time he had left fixing the bridges he'd destroyed. He couldn't change the past but he could choose his actions now and he wouldn't let his selfishness deprive his children of their family. So, after his doctor's appointment, Scotty drove him and the kids to a town Alex hadn't seen in over a decade and they walked up familiar streets until they reached an old white door with a crooked number six.

It felt weird to knock and weirder still for it to open and reveal his mother, older but always beautiful, after so long apart.

She stared at him for a second and then there were tears and she stepped forward and pulled him into her arms. She smelt of the same floral perfume she always wore and he inhaled it like a starving man at a feast. He'd missed her. They stood in an embrace for just minutes but it felt like hours before she pulled away and held him at arms length, looking him over. She'd always been attentive when it came to him and her eyes caught on the ring on his left hand and then she was looking at Scotty and the kid in his arms and the child hiding behind his leg.

Maya was more inquisitive, as the older child, and she took his mother's gaze as an invitation, moving to stand beside Alex. She hesitated, though, to take the last step so Alex helped her.

"This is my mother," he said, and he saw Daniel coming up behind her, "and that's my dad."

According to Cancer Research UK, 1 in 8 women and 1 in 870 men will be diagnosed with breast cancer during their lifetime. Check your breasts, ladies and gents.