When Peter looked back towards the barber’s, his dad’s eyes were on him. He stood, brushing breadcrumbs from his beard and mouthing the words, You OK? Peter mustered a smile and nodded, which seemed to please him. His dad looked over his shoulder as if to check no one was watching then mimed hanging himself from a noose with his tongue lolling out. Peter pointed towards the movie theatre and pretend-shot himself in the head. His dad laughed then finished the mime off by doing the exploding exit wound thing with his hand bursting away from his temple. He mouthed the words, Come over later? Peter nodded. But he knew right then that he had no intention of visiting his dad. He’d only see right through him and know that he was struggling, when what he needed to show him was what a success story his son was turning out to be now he was living the life he was born for.

His dad didn’t look away. It was as if he was waiting for something he hadn’t got yet. And it took a moment or two for Peter to work out exactly what that was. He wanted reassurance of his boy’s happiness. And Peter had never seen that look before now: not the need to know how he was really doing, but the request for reassurance regardless. Peter smiled. He wasn’t convinced he’d remembered to tell his eyes, but strangely enough it didn’t seem to matter. It was enough. His dad smiled back and his world was good again. Perhaps that was what being a grown-up meant, or being a grown-up son. Big-boy smiles. Noses to the grindstone. Regardless of how either of them were really doing. And it was easy. Easier this way, even. But it came at a cost. Peter felt the smile die inside him and waited for his dad to notice. But he didn’t. And right there and then he learned something terrible. His dad would no longer be able to tell the difference if he didn’t want him to. Peter’s throat went tight. Suddenly he wasn’t sure what he’d done by letting such a thing in.

Someone rapped the barber-shop window indicating that his dad had missed a patch of snow. His dad pooh-poohed any suggestion he hadn’t done a thorough enough job but the fist knocked again, more insistent this time, so he shoved the rest of the sandwich in his pocket and indicated to Peter that it was time to crack on. He mouthed the words Love you and pulled the shovel from the snow.