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5 Oct 2026 | 12:06 His father always had a reason to delay. Because of the colourful pictures and refused to leave the shop without it, he had chosen it.
“You’re still awake?” the father asked. He said it with the kind of pride only a child can have when he discovers something wonderful about himself. “When did you learn all this?” the father asked. “Tomorrow, I’ll read the whole story by myself,” he announced.
Every night, at almost the same hour, a little boy waited for his father to come upstairs. Sometimes, he sat under his blanket with a picture book resting on his knees. Sometimes, he kept the bedside lamp on, even when his eyes began to droop. And every night, when he heard footsteps approaching, he would call out, “Papa, just one story? There were emails to finish, calls to return, dishes in the sink and clothes that needed folding. Some evenings, he was still answering work messages when his son had already brushed his teeth. I’ll read you two stories. The boy never complained. He would simply turn towards the wall, pull his blanket up to his chin and whisper, “Okay, Papa. His father believed there would always be another night. After all, children love stories. And his son loved them more than anything. He didn’t realise that childhood was quietly changing while he was busy keeping up with everything else. One Thursday evening, the father returned home later than usual. His shoulders ached, his phone wouldn’t stop buzzing, and all he wanted was a quiet dinner and a few hours of sleep. As he walked past his son’s bedroom, he noticed the light was still on. The boy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, holding a book. His lips moved slowly as he followed the words with his finger. “Yes, Papa. “Come on, it’s late. Put the book away. The boy looked up. There was a small smile on his face. “It’s okay, Papa. You don’t have to. The father stopped. “Why? “I can read now. He opened the book and began reading a sentence aloud. The words came slowly, with a few pauses, but he managed to finish the paragraph without help. “See? I can do it myself. His father smiled. “That’s wonderful, champ. But something about the moment unsettled him. He looked at the book, then at his son. He remembered the days when the boy couldn’t recognise a single letter. How he would point at pictures and invent his own stories. How he used to interrupt every few lines to ask what happened next. How he would insist that his father make the dragon’s voice louder and the king sound sillier. And now, there he was, reading alone. “At school. And I practise here. “Here? The boy nodded. “Sometimes, after you say you’re busy. The father didn’t know what to say. He sat beside his son and picked up the book. It was the same little collection of stories they had once read together. Its corners were bent, a few pages had tiny pencil marks, and one page still carried a faint chocolate stain from a Sunday afternoon. He remembered buying it at a bookshop. His son had been barely three then, too small to hold the book properly. Back then, bedtime was an event. He couldn’t turn back those evenings. He couldn’t recover the stories he hadn’t read or the moments he had missed. But he could change what happened next.
On other nights, he would walk into the bedroom, kiss the boy’s forehead and promise, “Tomorrow, okay? I’ll read you a story tomorrow.
Because he wasn’t ready to let the characters go, sometimes he demanded the same story again.
“Do you want me to read with you tonight?” he asked. “One story?” the father asked. The boy would climb into his father’s lap, tuck his feet beneath his arm and listen with complete seriousness. The father had thought those nights were ordinary. There would be hundreds more, he assumed. But children don’t announce every little goodbye. They don’t tell you that tonight might be the last time they’ll need you to tie their shoelaces, carry them upstairs or read the words on a page. They simply grow out of things, one small day at a time. And parents often notice only when the familiar request disappears. The boy considered it. He left his phone downstairs, picked up the old storybook and walked into his son’s room. The boy was already in bed. His son grinned. “Two. So they read two.
Sometimes he fell asleep before the story ended. The following evening, he finished his work a little earlier.
But he would remember the Thursday evening when his son told him he could read by himself. “Can we read together? I’ll read one page and you read the next. “Of course. They began. His son stumbled over a difficult word, laughed, tried again and finally got it right. The father listened, resisting the urge to correct every little mistake. He wanted to hear that voice. He wanted to remember how it sounded when the boy was discovering the world one sentence at a time. When they reached the end, the child closed the book. The father nodded. “I know you will. A different kind of bedtime That night, after switching off the lamp, the father remained seated beside the bed for a little longer. “Papa? “Hmm? “Will you still tell me stories even when I can read? The question caught him off guard. He brushed a strand of hair away from his son’s forehead. “Yes. As long as you want me to. “Even when I’m big? “Even then. The boy seemed satisfied. The father thought about all the nights he had postponed, the promises he had made and the little voice that had stopped calling out for him. And the next night, they read another. Soon, the boy began choosing longer books. Sometimes he read aloud to his father. Sometimes his father made up stories about a little astronaut who was afraid of the dark or a bear who couldn’t find his way home. The stories changed as the boy grew. The voices changed too. But the ritual remained. Years later, the father would probably forget the names of those books. He might not remember which story had a dragon or which one had a little boy who wanted to become an astronaut. It was the night he understood that being a parent wasn’t about being needed in the same way forever. It was about being present as the ways in which a child needed you kept changing. And perhaps the most beautiful thing about growing up is that a child may no longer need you to read the words on a page, but will still look for your voice when the world gets a little too big. That night, the father had thought he was reading his son one last bedtime story. He hadn’t realised that his son was giving him another chance to begin. You use AI every day. Now get your AI Quotient. Take the AIQ test Get the latest Lifestyle News and more. Download the TOI app.