**The Stain on the Blazer**
— You’ve got a loose button, — the ticket inspector remarked, eyeing him as if he’d just crawled out of a train wreck.
Edward gave a silent nod.
— I know.
He didn’t bother explaining how, in his morning rush, he’d yanked his blazer from under his sleeping son, who’d clung to it after a nightmare. The boy’s breaths were uneven, his fingers curled tight, just like when he was a baby. Edward hadn’t dared wake him. He’d just stood there for a moment, taking in that familiar face—the faint dimple, the lashes fluttering in sleep. The silence was so fragile he could hear every exhale. Then, carefully, he’d pulled free, tugged on his trousers, and grabbed the blazer. The button cracked as it caught on the edge of the duvet.
Now he was rattling along in an ancient tram through the outskirts of Manchester. His suit was wrinkled, the sleeve marred by a dried raspberry jam stain—his son had knocked over the jar yesterday, and he’d only noticed as he sprinted for the tram stop. He’d almost changed, but there was no time. This was his only interview suit—the one he’d picked out with his son hanging off his shoulders, giggling and tugging at his tie, insisting he looked like “a spy from the telly.”
This was his fifth interview this month. The others had all smiled, promised to call. They never did. Once, someone had outright said, “You’re a bit old for our team.” That was the first time he’d felt his age like a brand, something that erased all the late nights, the deadlines salvaged, the teams he’d held together through sheer stubbornness. As if some invisible hand were crossing him off life’s guest list.
Twenty years in construction—from site engineer to project manager. He could rescue a deadline, charm a client, keep morale up when everything was falling apart. But then the industry crashed, and suddenly Edward was left with a mortgage, a son, and skills no one wanted. His ex-wife rarely crossed his mind; her leaving had been like a gust of wind—swift, soundless, just a door clicking shut behind her. Only at night did his son whisper, “Will Mum come back?” Edward would stay quiet, then escape to the bathroom, scrubbing his hands under the tap like he could wash away the helplessness.
The tram lurched, his folder of CVs nearly slipping to the floor. He caught it, straightened his blazer. The stain looked enormous, another badge of failure. Staring at his reflection in the grimy window, he thought, *Would they even see me without it?*
The office was a glass tower, the lobby gleaming like a surgical theatre. The receptionist, flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile, led him to a meeting room so sterile it felt like a lab—white walls, no art, just steel and more glass. A water pitcher and two tumblers sat on the table. The chair creaked under him as he waited, watching the door’s reflection in the polished surface like it was a lake’s still surface.
— Edward Thompson? A man in rolled-up shirtsleeves walked in.
— That’s me.
— Simon. Head of Development. Let’s be straight. Your CV’s solid. Experience is top-notch. One question: why are you out of work? What happened?
Edward exhaled. He knew this dance—be honest but not pitiful, confident but not smug. He talked about the layoffs, the industry slump, his son, how he was ready to adapt, to lead, to fit in. Simon listened, nodding. His gaze was tired but sharp, the look of someone who hears more than the words. And suddenly Edward realized he wasn’t pitching himself. He was just talking, needing to be heard.
— You’ve got a kid, yeah? Simon asked abruptly.
— Yes. Seven.
— Right. Simon looked away. — My daughter’s the same age. Ex-wife’s raising her. Sometimes she calls me at midnight, just sobbing. I never know what to say. But I listen.
He stood, wandered to the window. Edward felt sweat trickle down his back. The stain on his sleeve burned like a brand. He dropped his gaze, as if that made it easier to breathe. The hum of the air conditioning filled the silence.
— Here’s the thing, Simon said, still facing the glass. — I’ll call you. Today. Promise. Just one thing…
He returned to the table, plucked a tissue from the box, and handed it over.
— You’ve got… a bit of a stain there. Jam, is it?
Edward nodded. Took the tissue like it was a lifeline. He almost explained, then stopped. Smiled—awkward, but real.
Outside, he didn’t hurry off. He sat on a bench by the entrance, squinting in the sunlight. Stretched his legs, dropped the folder beside him. Pulled out his phone. The screen showed his son, arms looped around his neck, laughing against a backdrop of their old estate at sunset. Edward stared until his eyes stung. Hit record and whispered:
— Hey, champ. Dad did alright today. Think… think I did alright.
He knew the call might never come. Or it might. But there was a quiet certainty in his chest—not triumphant, not loud, just warm, like his son’s hand in his. The stain on his blazer didn’t seem so glaring now. It was just part of the story. His story. And that was alright.
