Every Friday, I revisit an old story, essay, or poem. Sometimes the words hold. Sometimes they don’t. But what I return to isn’t the page—it’s the moment behind it. Like returning to an old dig—with sharper tools this time. Not to rewrite, but to listen more closely. To notice what I missed. What I wasn’t ready to feel. ‘I’m Desperate, Dan!’ first surfaced in 2013. I see it differently now. Because now, I understand what that little boy was reaching for—and why he never quite let go.
Just Once. Just Enough.
The first comic came with a newspaper and a warm hand. My father’s, not my own. We walked the same pavement before breakfast, a ritual carved into the summer of 1966. Rhyl. Seabank Road. I was five. I remember stretching my stride so each paving stone got only one step—no repeats, no breaks. The walk felt earned. A rule made by me, kept by both of us.
He let me choose a summer special—The Dandy, Beano, sometimes one I didn’t really want but took anyway. They cost five times the regular issue, printed on better paper, bright with summer mischief. He never flinched at the price. Just nodded, like this was how things were done.
It was the only time I remember holding his hand and not letting go.
My Mum wasn’t there. Not then. Not in the memory. Or maybe she was, just not in the kind of way that leaves a mark. Except for that one time—standing beside the clothes dryer, polka-dot dress, the kitchen at Seanor Lane. My face pressed into her stomach, her arms there, but only barely. The hug felt like an accident—something that had slipped past her nerves before they could catch it.
Everything else was Dad.
He didn’t explain much. He didn’t need to. His presence was explanation enough. He was there. Every morning. Every walk. Every small decision mattered—because he made it with me. He didn’t give much—but when he did, it stayed. Not showy—but solid. Like it would hold.
He always let me pick sweets too. Or a chocolate bar. Never both, but the choosing made it feel infinite. I usually went for Rolos, Milky Bars, or Fruit Pastilles. I’d turn the packets over in my hands, pretend to debate. But he always waited, never rushed me. That time—just us—was the kind of quiet you don’t notice until it’s gone. I see now how hungry I was for it.
He worked away a lot then. Different stores, different towns. During the week, he was mostly gone, or came home long after I’d gone to bed. But on holiday, or when he was home on Sundays, it was like the world clicked back into place—just for a little while.
Sometimes the three of us did things together. Wednesday picnics in the summer, when they’d pick me up early from school and we’d head into the Peak District. Or a slow Sunday drive to Forest Corner, once he’d finished his “honey-do” list. Those days had a quiet shimmer to them. But I learned to read the air: how he’d sometimes quiet his warmth, soften it down, like turning down a radio so someone else doesn’t hear what they’re missing.
I didn’t have the language for it then, but I felt it. The way his love curled inward when Mum was near. Not absent—just edited. Like he was trying not to love me too visibly, in case it made her feel small.
By the end of the week, the paper shop began to thin. The best comics disappeared first. I picked Valiant once—just war stories—and knew we were nearly done.
One morning, on a summer holiday, just before everything began to shift, I found myself taking a walk before breakfast. The sun on my shoulders unlocked something. The rhythm. The quiet. The way light can feel like permission. And suddenly, I was five again. On Seabank Road. Stretching my stride so each paving stone got only one step. The years collapsed inward. The memory didn’t ask permission. It just arrived.
I didn’t speak. Just walked beside the person I’ve become. Still stretching his stride—out of habit, maybe. Or hope. Still listening for the soft rustle of newsprint folded with care.
Growing up, Dad didn’t say he loved me. He didn’t need to. He was there. Always. Not just present, but attending. The kind of love that arrives without performance. The kind that holds your hand—steady, unflinching, like a rule made by someone small and honored by someone big. It was only when he was terminally ill and close to the end that the final gift arrived—when we felt free, felt compelled to voice the words we’d always felt, always known.
Mum’s love flickered—brief, bright, then gone. One kitchen hug. A dress I never forgot. But Dad’s love was quieter. Not a flare, but a throughline. Daily. Steady. Unshowy.
I think that’s why touch still stops me short. Why its absence hums. As a child, I didn’t know the words for what was missing. So I blamed myself. Filled the gaps with should-haves and if-onlys. But Dad never asked me to be different. He just showed up. Paper under arm. Coins in pocket. Comic at the ready.
Some days, I still reach for him like that. In weather. In walking. In the stubborn grace of choosing the same route, even when you know what’s gone. I try to show up like he did. Unloud. Unmissable.
I wrote this before everything came undone. Before someone I loved chose departure over presence. I didn’t see it then, but maybe that’s why this memory returned with such clarity. Because love, at its best, stays. Not always loudly. Not always perfectly. But daily. In small walks. In shared papers. In a comic chosen just for you, even when the good ones are gone.
I’m sixty-four now. Better at offering love than receiving it. Especially touch. I still flinch sometimes when someone reaches for me—like I learned early not to take too much, even when offered. But I’m learning. Slowly. Like hunger finally met with gentleness. Like stretching your stride to meet each stone. Just once. Just enough.