14March
It began with the ultrasound report landing on the kitchen table. Another girl? You must be joking! my motherinlaw, Margaret Hughes, snapped, waving the results. Four generations of men in my family have worked the railways. What are you bringing home now?
My baby, Emma whispered, smoothing her rounded belly. Well call her Poppy.
Poppy at least the names decent, Margaret muttered. But whats she going to be good for? Who needs another Poppy?
I stared at my phone, mute. When Emma asked what I thought, I shrugged. Whats there to choose? Maybe next time itll be a boy.
A strange tightness settled in Emmas chest. Next time? Was this little one just a rehearsal?
Poppy arrived in Januarytiny, with huge eyes and a tuft of dark hair. I showed up only for the discharge, bearing a bouquet of carnations and a bag of tiny clothes.
Lovely, I said, peering cautiously into the pram. She looks just like you.
And that nose of yours, Emma laughed, gesturing at my stubborn chin. And that set jaw.
Enough of that, I waved off. All babies look the same at this age.
Margaret met us at the door with a sour expression. Neighbour Valerie asked if Id had a grandson or a granddaughter. Embarrassing, isnt it? At my age Im still playing with dolls
Emma slipped into the nursery and broke down, clutching Poppy to her chest.
Work had been grinding ever harder. I took extra shifts on neighboring lines, thinking the extra pay would keep the household afloat, especially with a child. I came home late, exhausted, silent.
Shes waiting for you, Emma would say whenever I passed the playroom without looking. Poppy always lights up when she hears your steps.
Im knackered, love. Early start tomorrow, Id mutter.
But you havent even said hello to her
Shes too little to understand, Id reply.
Yet Poppy understood. Emma watched as our daughter turned her head toward the door the moment my footsteps echoed, then stared into emptiness as the sounds faded.
At eight months Poppy fell ill. Her temperature climbed to 38.5°C, then 39°C. I called an ambulance, but the doctor said we could try paracetamol at home. By morning the fever spiked to 40°C.
Max, get up! Poppys really bad! Emma shouted, shaking me. What time is it?
Seven. Ive been up all night with her. We need to get her to hospital.
Its so earlycan we wait till evening? I have a crucial shift today.
Emma looked at me as if I were a stranger.
Your daughters burning with fever and youre thinking about a shift?
Shes not dying. Kids get sick all the time.
I called in sick, but the line was dead. At seven in the evening I finally answered my own phone.
Emma, Im at the depot
Max, Poppy has meningitis! We need your consent for a spinal tap now! The doctors are waiting!
What? A tap? I dont understand
Come here now!
I cant, Im on a shift till eleven. Ill speak to the guys later
Emma hung up, her silence louder than any protest.
The head nurse demanded both parents permission. Emma called me all day; my phone was unavailable. When I finally got through, she told me the procedure was underway and that only a mothers signature was needed. Poppy was wheeled into isolation, a tiny figure on a large operating table, under full anaesthetic.
The results will be ready tomorrow, the consultant said. If it is meningitis, treatment will be lengthyabout six weeks in hospital.
Emma stayed overnight. Poppy lay under an IV, pale and still, her chest rising only faintly.
I showed up the next day for lunch, gaunt and dishevelled.
Hows she? I asked, hesitant to step into the ward.
Not good, Emma replied shortly. The tests arent back yet.
What did they dowhats the procedure?
A spinal tap. They took fluid from her spine for analysis.
My skin went cold.
Did it hurt her?
She was under anaesthetic, didnt feel a thing.
I stood by her cot, the tiny hand and a catheter glued to her wrist. Shes so small, I muttered. I never imagined
Emma said nothing.
The analysis came back negative for meningitisjust a viral infection with complications. She could be treated at home under a doctors watch.
Lucky you, the head nurse said. A day or two longer and it could have been far worse.
The drive home was silent. When we pulled up to our terraced house, I whispered, Am I really that bad as a father?
Emma adjusted Poppys blanket and turned to me. What do you think?
I used to think there was plenty of time, that she was too little to understand anything. Then I saw her there, tubes and all, and I realised I could lose her. I could lose something that matters.
Max, she needs a father, not just a provider. A father who knows her name, her favourite toys, her little quirks.
What are those? I asked softly.
The rubber hedgehog and the jingling rattle. When you come home she crawls to the door, waiting for you to pick her up.
I lowered my head. I didnt know.
Now you do.
Later that night Poppy awoke, crying softly. I reached for her, but stopped. May I? I asked Emma.
Shes your daughter.
I lifted her gently. She sniffled, then settled, gazing at my face with serious, oversized eyes.
Hello, little one, I whispered. Sorry I wasnt there when you were scared.
She pressed her tiny hand to my cheek. My throat tightened with an unfamiliar feeling.
Daddy, she said clearly.
It was her first word.
Emmas eyes widened. Shes been trying for a weekjust when youre not home. She was waiting for the right moment.
When she fell asleep in my arms later, I carried her to her crib. She clutched my finger tighter, as if afraid Id slip away.
She doesnt want to let go, I said, bewildered.
Shes scared youll disappear again, Emma explained.
I sat by the crib for half an hour, reluctant to release my grip.
Ill take a day off tomorrow, and the next, I declared. I want to get to know my daughter properly.
How will you manage work? The extra shifts?
Well find another way to earn, or live more modestly. The point is not to miss how she grows.
Emma embraced me. Better late than never.
Id never forgive myself if something happened and I never even knew her favourite toys or that she could say daddy, I murmured, eyes on the sleeping Poppy.
A week later, fully recovered, we went to the park. Poppy sat on my shoulders, giggling, snatching at autumn leaves.
Look at those golden maples, Poppy! I pointed. And theres a squirrel!
Emma walked beside us, thinking how close we came to losing something priceless.
Margaret met us at the door with a disgruntled look. Emma, Valerie told me her grandson is already playing football. And yours just dolls.
My daughter is the best in the world, I replied calmly, handing Poppy the rubber hedgehog. And dolls are wonderful.
The line will break, she warned.
It wont. Itll just change form. Itll keep going.
Margaret tried to argue, but Poppy waddled over, grabbed her hands and shouted, Baa! with a grin. The old woman, bewildered, held her granddaughter.
Shes talking! Margaret gasped.
Our Poppys clever, I said proudly. Right, love?
Daddy! Poppy cheered, clapping.
I watched the scene and realised happiness often arrives after a trial, and the deepest love is the one that matures slowly, forged through fear and loss.
At night, I sang a lullaby, my voice hoarse but steady. Poppy stared wideeyed at me.
You never sang to her before, Emma noted.
I missed a lot, I admitted. Now I have the chance to catch up on the lost time.
She fell asleep, clutching my finger, and I stayed still, listening to her breathing, thinking of all that could have slipped by if I hadnt paused.
She smiled in her sleep, knowing her father wouldnt be going anywhere.
Lesson: You cant afford to let work steal the moments that build a family. The true wealth lies in the tiny hands you hold, the first words you hear, and the quiet nights you choose to be present.
