'My Father’s New Dad-Suit Loves Ice Cream' by Marie-Louise McGuinness

Ice cream is the texture of my father’s lies. If I try to eat it, it swells in my mouth and I am unable to swallow. He brought me for ice cream on the last day we spoke— chocolate fudge for me, mint choc chip for him— I thought we were bonding, he knew he was cutting the cord.

Now, ice cream smells ripe of the dad suit my father shed like a snake. It lay at our front door for years, shrivelling up at the edges, becoming slimy, oozing betrayal, yet open and willing to welcome him back.

But he crawled into another dad suit, one lying open in another hallway, in another house. A boy’s dad suit like he wanted all along.

I never saw him wearing it, only pictures posted online.

It seemed to itch him in the early years, when he stood cheering on the sidelines of the football pitch, or built sandcastles with plastic buckets too small for his hands, but time smoothed it to his contours until you’d never guess it wasn’t made for him.

And the dad-suit he discarded without a backward glance, melted away slowly with photos of graduations and weddings. And lots and lots of ice cream.

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Marie-Louise McGuinness has work published in numerous literary magazines including The Forge, Flash Frog, Milk Candy Review, Splonk and Gone Lawn. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and enjoys writing from a sensory perspective.