The Whisper Man

by Alex North

Why couldn’t Jake be more like the other children? More normal? It was an ugly thought, I knew, but it was only because I wanted to protect him. The world can be brutal when you’re as quiet and solitary as he was, and I didn’t want him to go through what I had at his age.

When you go after something as hard as he had, there were few things as irritating as someone who could have had it more easily but never seemed to want

The relief I felt was palpable, and suddenly that was all that mattered. My son was happy to be here, and I’d done something good for him, and nothing else was important.

Mummy would have told him it didn’t matter, and she would have made him believe it too. But Jake thought that it did matter to Daddy. Jake was aware that he could be very disappointing sometimes.

I also couldn’t deny the ugly kernel of resentment I felt, the frustration at being left alone with Jake, the loneliness of that empty bed. The sense of being abandoned to deal with things it felt like I couldn’t cope with. None of that was her fault, of course, but grief is a stew with a thousand ingredients, and not all of them are palatable. What

Tomorrow is always a new day, but there’s never any reason to think it will be a better one.

A better father—an average one, even—would have convinced the police to take him seriously. A better father would have a son who talked to him, not undermined him. Who could see that I was just scared for him and trying to protect him.

There could be little doubt that his son had grown into a good man. Not worthless. Not useless or a failure. Which was good.