The hospital smelled so clean, so dead. I sat on a bench in the hallway, eyes on the floor. The white tile stared back at me, sparkling like bleached teeth. Rows of closed doors lined either side of the hallway, each a cell housing some poor or brave soul. I could hear my wife whimpering from the room just a door away. The heels of my tennis shoes tapped a crazed rhythm against the tile as my knee bobbed madly. About to be a first-time dad, and I couldn’t take it.

I closed my eyes, shutting out the blinding light. Deep breath. It’s okay—I’m only twenty-three. I’m doing great. I’m doing the right thing.

When I was ten, my sister was born in this same hospital. My brother and I were there. Our aunt watched over us and kept us outside the door until the nurses let us in. Mom leaned against the white pillows, wrapped up in those sterile hospital blankets. She was just as red as the trembling baby she held. I remember how she smiled when she saw us, how her lips quivered when our aunt told her that Dad wasn’t coming. When the nurses came and shooed us out, Mom was sobbing.

Dad chickened out or he didn’t care—I never asked. When a pressing question weighed on my soul, Dad was the last person I’d ask. “Go ask your mother!” followed by a slap on the ears.

I was being a good dad, sitting on the bench, eyes tracing the snake-like cracks in the linoleum. I ran my fingers through my light brown hair, realized it was drenched with sweat. I wiped my hands on my cargo shorts, knees bobbing. Exhaling, I tugged the front of my white tee, trying to get some air up it.

“Oh God, please help me.” The words were gasped out—as much a curse as a prayer.

I didn’t talk to God as much as I used to. He was busy, I was busy, we didn’t get in each other’s way. It worked out, for the most part, when I had it all together.

I sure didn’t have it together right now.

I glanced at the closed door holding my wife prisoner. I should be in there with her. The nurses would let me if I asked—if I had the guts. My lips went dry. I shut my eyes.

“God, give me the guts. I wanna—”

Footsteps. I blinked my eyes open, surprised at the moisture on my lashes. A stout nurse shuffled past in blue scrubs. I closed my eyes again and folded my hands. I was praying, right? What was I praying?

Another moan from Helen slid out from under the hospital room door. My heart seized. Now was my chance. Now was when she needed me. Stand up. Go with her. I opened my eyes, tensed my muscles, but I couldn’t move. My folded hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

My mind was racing. I’ll fail her. Fail her like Dad. I’m too young. She wouldn’t want the distraction. It’s okay. It’s not. I’m a failure. I’m a good husband—right?

No. I can’t do this. Gotta take a walk.

I got up from the bench and started down the hallway, my pace quick. A few nurses patrolled the hall. One of them noticed—a tall brunette who looked like she’d spent too much time on her makeup and not enough on her teeth.

“Where are you going, sir?” she asked, stepping in front of me.

“Outside,” I said, my eyes on the elevator door that capped the far end of the hall.

She raised her eyebrows, then smiled, revealing a bright pink lipstick stain on her front teeth. “First time Dad?”

“Uh-huh.” It felt like my chest was going to explode. My throat went dry.

She frowned. “You sure you don’t want to stay here with your wife?”

“I—I mean, yeah, it’s just…” I bit my lip. What was wrong with me? Didn’t I want to be a dad?

My gaze flicked to the sparkling baseboards. I could see the scene, hear his voice as clearly as when it happened eight years ago.

It had been a rough dinner. Dad yelled at me for eating with my mouth open. Said I was fifteen—should set a better example for my sister. I’m not sure where it went from there, but I remember where it landed. He shoved me onto the couch in our dark little living room and sat down beside me.

“Why do I have an idiot for a son?” he muttered. Dad turned to me, crossed his arms—thin but strong. That eternal frown split his bearded face. “Daniel, let me tell you something. I’m a coward. So are you. Men are cowards. That’s just how we are. We pretend to be strong—it’s a lie. You think I’m a terrible dad? Truth is, I just stopped trying.”

The nurse snapped a finger at my face. “Uh, sir? Are you alright?”

I stared at her. “I’m—I’m okay,” I said, and then I saw the elevator. I glanced back at the shut door where my wife was and had to look away. “Can I go outside?”

“If you think that’s what’s best for your family,” the nurse answered, stepping out of my way.

I felt like bolting for the elevator, but I knew that would just attract more attention. I forced myself to walk slowly.

It seemed like a thousand years before the elevator landed on the first floor. I don’t think anything happened in those thousand years Nothing beyond adding sweat and wrinkles to my twenty-three-year-old brow.

My hands shaking, I exited the silver coffin, nodded to the lady at the desk, and walked through the doors into the parking lot. I started my walk along the sidewalk.

I walked fast. I tried to convince myself I was just taking a breather, that I’d be inside again in a minute, but I knew better. If I was a real man, I would have been in that room, holding my wife’s hand, fearless. But instead, I was out here, pacing—proving my dad right.

I was a coward. Why fight it?

A little green wire-frame bench squatted beneath a trimmed maple on the grass where visitors let their dogs run. No one was out there today, thank God.

I shuffled up to the bench, heart racing, and sat down. My hands trembled as I gripped my knees. I bit my lip.

Shake it off. Shake it off, I told myself.

A few pigeons had flown off the powerlines and waddled around the parking lot, hunting for crumbs. One of them approached the sidewalk, cocked its head at me. I couldn’t even work up the courage to meet its crazy eyes.

There were no clouds out today—the sunlight beat down on the back of my neck. I could feel the beads of sweat oozing from my pores, running down my back like cowards, too scared to hold their ground when the sun grew hot.

Slowly, my heart wrenching, I shook my head. My dad was right. I was an idiot, a coward, and a failure. I knew how I spent my evenings and I knew how my dad spent his. After my sister was born, my dad became a drunk. Couldn’t hack it, he said. He knew his limits, he said. Fatherhood was too hard, he said.

And it all ends—marriage, fatherhood. I saw my dad leave my mom after Georgiana turned seven—I knew the routine.

And when I found that angel Helen playing with her hair in youth group, I swore to myself that I would be a better man to her than my dad was to mom—to us.

But I failed. I failed because I wasn’t the man I hoped I was—I was still just a kid wrapped up in all these hopes and fears. I failed because I wasn’t there for my wife when she needed me. Too late I learned that “when she needed me” was always…and I always failed her. I was walking, hiding—afraid that I’d slip and fail and she’d notice.

And she would notice—I could practically see her face now. How her lip would tremble when she held our baby and realized I wasn’t there.

I clenched my teeth, shut my eyes, and felt the hot tears rush out like the glass shards from a smashed beer.

I shook my head and turned to the fat pigeons peeling taffy off the asphalt and swallowing it whole. They cooed like newborns, their feathers glimmering in the afternoon sun.

They seemed fine. No bills to pay, no inner fears to wreck their families. God took care of them just fine.

I scratched my chin—just enough stubble to make my high school self jealous. I went to church a lot back then. That was where I met Helen. A tightness settled in my chest. I still went to church with Helen—anxiety permitting, which it didn’t half the time.

I wanted to be a good father—raise up some kids and please God. But I couldn’t raise a family on my own power. I didn’t even have a kid yet, and I was already failing miserably. Could God pick up my nine hundred and fifty yards of slack? I don’t know—I’d never asked Him. It wasn’t like I had excluded God from my life—had I? I mean, we’d talked a little, or tried, at least. Gosh, everything was just so confusing—so tumultuous inside.

I put my head in my hands.

I gotta trust God—right now. Right NOW! I’ll lose everything if I don’t. But I don’t know how to. I gripped my face, sinking my nails into my cheeks. I can’t do it. I failed. I’m failing Helen. I don’t know how to trust God.

But, whispered a small voice in my heart, but you can start.

I could start.

I inhaled and pulled my hands away from my face. I couldn’t muscle it, but with God’s help, I could start…

God help me to start. Some of the heaviness—the tangle—began to slip off. I felt a lightness growing slowly in my chest. I stood up, back popping, pigeons still eating pretzel crumbs without a care. Or perhaps…perhaps they did have cares and worries. Perhaps they had failures and slack trailing behind them too. They just chose to let their Creator feed them.

With His help, I can start. I could take a step in faith, trusting He’ll pick up my slack. That’s the beginning. That’s how I begin to trust God more, to be a better husband and father.

I turned my face toward the sky. “Thanks,” I whispered. “Let’s make a start—in your strength.”

I brought my gaze back down, took a deep breath, and walked back into the hospital.

Noah J. Matthews

Noah J. Matthews is a writer and aspiring filmmaker from northern Michigan. He has a passion for helping people identify and pursue their dreams. You can find him at noahjmatthews.com.