My Son, Another Man's Daughter

The man stood, almost half-heartedly, clinging onto the railing like one holding on for his last breath. He was devastated. His muscular build, his arrogance, his confidence, all transformed into melancholy. On his trembling knees, tears flowing down his unshaven, almost deeply sunken cheeks, onto the iron-hard floor, putting in observable effort, trying to mouth some words, and convince them to depart his mouth, he frightfully, yet almost as if pleading innocence, stuttered, “It can’t be him. He wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s, my son.”

I looked at him, just processing his state for a moment. My eyes, almost callously, stared down at him, and continued doing so, till he looked down at the floor, sobbing. Just as I was about to open my mouth, he interrupted, almost as if he was compelled to. “It wasn’t him. I’m sure of it. He is my son”, he said, helplessly. Desperately.

I sighed, for I couldn’t believe he was still uttering the same sentence, almost like a stuck gramophone. “Yes, Toby”, I said, almost unwillingly. Looking at his sapped eyes, drenched with tears, determined to prove a point, I told him, “Yes, he is your son, but the girl he raped is another man's daughter.”