Glovebox

My dad drove me to the airport. He said eleven words. Then I saw what was in his glovebox.

I'd just broken up with Mia. Three years. I was running. A fresh start. A job in Manchester, a one-way train ticket, a new postcode. My dad, a man who communicates mostly through the weather and football scores, offered to give me a lift to the station.

We drove in silence. Rain on the windscreen. The radio low. He gripped the wheel at ten and two like it was a driving test.

Halfway there, he cleared his throat.

"Don't be a coward, son."

I turned. "What?"

He kept his eyes on the road. "I was a coward once. Don't be me."

That was it. Eleven words. He turned up the radio.

At the station, he popped the boot. I went to put the bag in. Then I realised I'd left my charger in the glovebox. I opened it, rummaging past a torch, an old map, and a stack of petrol receipts.

Beneath it all, a photograph.

Faded. Creased. A girl in a sunhat, laughing at someone off-camera. Early nineties, by the haircut. On the back, in my dad's blocky handwriting.

"Sarah. Summer '93."

My mum's name is Helen.

I looked up. Dad was watching me through the windscreen. He didn't say a word. He just nodded, slowly, and gave a small, sad smile.

Thirty years in a glovebox.

Some people don't get over it.

They just learn to drive around it.