The Pride Roars
Flash Competition 2026
Winner
Something About My Father Who I Never Really Knew by Zoë Davis
“The folding house salesman is here!” my sister cries and gallops to the front door, eager, fingers scrabbling at the red wood panelling. The dog looks at her in confusion and hides beneath a chair.
“Quiet now,” M-other demands, sweeping through the hall, clapping flour from her hands. For this, even the pies could wait.
She smooths irritation from her skirt, pats her buttered head and inches the door open on its meagre chain. This is how we have been taught to greet strangers. It makes my sister feel safe. I wonder if conviction paired with a booted foot would fracture that false comfort. This is why I am older. I am jaded. I came out of the womb asking, ‘Is this it?’ I will marry first. If I do, I will be getting better locks.
We stand behind M-other as if she were a mantelpiece clock and we were matching ornaments.
“Can I interest you in a home?” the man says, doffing his hat.
“I don’t usually buy anything on the doorstep,” M-other replies.
This is not a no.
She stands there, barefoot, waiting, as it is now his turn to do battle.
“I can show you the best in our range, Madam,” he replies charmingly and thrusts a briefcase up over his head. As if by magic, a clasp flies open and out concertinas an array of foldable houses. I smell leather. And absence.
We squeal a fanfare of delight but fall silent from a glance that would mute a donkey.
“Stand back, girls. Be quiet. This is adult talk.”
M-other unlatches the door and opens it to a degree of vulnerability I have never seen before. Beneath her stern veneer, there is love. It is the only truth we know. We have seen it when she has been asleep, her layers peeling back like the sea-grey wallpaper in the bathroom.
“What do you have in brick? I need something sturdy. Dependable.”
“This is our most popular model, Madam. We call it Delusion.”
He rips a tester home from the case, offering it to M-other like the butcher does a plump roasting joint. “Lounge, dining room, kitchen, three beds upstairs, but only room for two. Parking… if you have a bicycle. Easy to assemble. You just have to cut along the dotted lines.”
“What about glue?”
He snorts a laugh that causes his moustache to wobble. He appears sturdy. Dependable.
“No glue required.”
My mother indulges in a pause. You cannot be too eager, she always tells us. It gives the wrong impression.
But the wrong impression is the only impression M-other knows.
“If you can’t afford Delusion-” the salesman murmurs, and he knows, he KNOWS M-other will be worried the neighbours heard.
“Oh, I can afford it,” she snaps back, twisting an imaginary ring around her sun-bleached finger.
I glance at my sister with full-moon eyes. Last week we couldn’t even get ice-cream. Before that, new shoes.
“I’ll take two.”
“Two?! Absolutely, Madam. A grand choice if I do say so myself. Clearly a lady of taste, class and refinement.”
He removes two cellophane wrapped homes from a small partition on the back of his case and goes to hand them to M-other.
“Oh, they’re not for me, they’re for them,” she snickers behind a polite hand.
Jokes, mouthfuls of food, and true feelings must always be stifled.
“Of course they are,” he apologises, forcing a packet into our sweaty palms. Our eyes meet briefly. I feel as though I’m his library book.
“Now, off you go, you two,” M-other claps, dusting us both. “You can make them into anything you want. If you’re going to do any cutting though, please do it in the garden, and use the safety scissors.”
My sister runs away giggling in delight, almost forgetting to breathe. She has wanted one for years. It’s all she’s ever asked for: at birthdays, Christmases, funerals.
I go to follow, but stop at the foot of the stairs, hanging off the bannisters as the salesman holds out his hands for payment.
M-other obligingly cries into them.
He nods, a muteness in his soul that speaks volumes. His stability remains. He even smiles. Mrs Dobson from No.10 has already seen him coming.
The green picket gate clacks closed on his way out. M-other collapses to her knees, soiling her apron. She continues to pay in full. She has been saving up for such a long time.
I wasn’t surprised when we never saw him again.
Zoë Davis is a writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. In her free time she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant, Dust and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.
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