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Laura Besley writes short and very short fiction and enjoys exploring big topics in small spaces. She is the author of four collections of flash & micro fiction, most recently: ‘sum of her PARTS’ (V. Press, June 2025). Having lived in the Netherlands, Germany and Hong Kong, she now lives in land-locked central England and misses the sea. Read more of her writing on her website (laurabesley.com)

My Father

By Laura Besley

My father was always late. And by late, I mean really late. Like an hour or two. The December I was five, he missed my school nativity. (I was a sheep and Mom had made me a costume out of an old robe and a hairband studded with cotton wool puffs.) He missed movie nights in the den, teacher-parent meetings, that time I fell off my bike and chipped my two front teeth. Another time, Mom sent him to the store for eight silver candles. She said, ‘It’s for her birthday cake, Tom.’ I stayed awake until I saw the headlights of the old Volvo slink across the front yard.

But then. Yeah. Sometimes he would be there with his big hands and his big arms and his big shoulders, and his big voice would boom out, ‘Where’s my favorite girls?’ Mom would try to be mad at the tulips or roses or whatever he had armfuls of that was in season, but she knew there was no point fighting it. We were utterly helpless against the energy of those moods. I mean, those times he was wonderful. So wonderful. He’d bring me toys or games and get down on his big belly and we’d play make believe or tea parties or fairies or whatever. I mean, he’d be there with me for hours, whistling off-beat tunes, occasionally stroking Mom’s ankle which was tucked up beside her on the couch and they’d look at each other and I had no idea what that meant and this is how it would be until the sun streaked the sky red and yellow and pink. *