Here's another one from tumblr. This one-shot was based on a prompt someone sent me for a story in which Tom was a soldier returning from war and was seeing his son after many months away. I altered the idea slightly to make Tom not a soldier but a war correspondent during World War II. Let me know what you think!
Tom rarely had time for more than a letter a week, but Sybil didn't mind because his columns, which came three sometimes four times weekly, felt like letters to her. It was unintentional—writing what was happening on the ground in France as if he were writing to his wife—but even before he'd volunteered to work as a war correspondent, Tom always considered news events he was sent to cover and asked himself, "What would Sybil want to know?" She was the cleverest person he knew and his instincts to write with her in mind never let him down.
The decision to go to France in the first place was not easy on either of them. Several years into their marriage—"a wild, runaway marriage," in Sybil's words, and one that she would never regret—Tom was still struggling to make a name for himself as a journalist. Between Sybil's work as a nurse and his work on the side as a mechanic, they and their three-year-old son had been living a comfortably humble life since they'd left Downton Abbey and Sybil's old, more opulent life behind. But the career that Tom had hoped for hadn't materialized they way he'd wanted, and Sybil saw the frustration eat away at him. He was still a "stringer" paid by column inch, covering petty crimes while the more senior writers on the newspaper's full-time staff took the good stories and hoarded the bylines.
But if Tom lacked in tenure and influence in the newsroom, he made up for it in determination and willingness to go where others wouldn't. As war raged on in the continent and the seemingly relentless bombings took their toll on London (worrying Sybil to tears at times over the fate of friends from her old life), the Irish government's position of neutrality did not nullify interest from the public. The paper's publisher declared a desire to send a local reporter to the front, and when the usual suspects backed away from the opportunity, fearful of what it might involve and knowing that a swift end to the fighting was unlikely, Tom saw an opening—a chance, finally, to tell a big story.
So with Sybil's blessing (and a small lock of her hair pinned to the inside of his waistcoat), Tom went, willing to give up months of his life with his family if it meant they might be provided for more securely for years into the future. Sybil let him go because she knew it was his dream and because she knew that dreams require sacrifice and, sometimes, travel. Hadn't hers taken her to Ireland, after all?
The first column appeared on page ten of the paper's news section, but by the end of his first month away, his name became a mainstay of the front page. Sybil read his words aloud to Colin, their son, who would hold Tom's photograph as he did so. Tom's mother had been less understanding than Sybil of her son's ambitions at first, but when she began to see the fruit of his labor every day, her pride grew along with the pile of his clippings she kept.
The months took their toll on both Tom and Sybil, but they endured the separation, and at the end of almost a year away, with an end to the fighting now in sight, Tom made plans to come home, proud to call himself a true writer, and confident the profession would be his livelihood so long as he would be able to practice it.
When he stepped back on Irish soil, Sybil was there, full of love and tears of joy. It had been a long year, but worth it, and she could tell just by looking at him. After a long tearful embrace and several kisses, each longer than the last, he looked around for his son.
"Where's Colin?" he asked.
"He's with your mother," Sybil said, excitedly. "I told him I was going out and would bring him back a surprise. He'll be so happy to see you."
Despite his initial elation at seeing Sybil, Tom's face grew concerned immediately, and Sybil noticed.
"What?" she asked.
"It's just . . . what if he doesn't recognize me." Tom's voice was small, and it broke Sybil's heart.
"Oh, darling," Sybil said, pulling him into a tight embrace. "Of course he'll recognize you."
"But he hasn't seen me in a year, and he was only three when I left."
Sybil smiled and took Tom's face into her hands. "What kind of mother do you take me for? One who wouldn't show her son a photograph of his father every single day?"
Tom looked down with a small, sad smile. "I know you're a good mother, love. But what kind of father leaves his son for as long as I have—"
"Tom! We spoke of this loads of times before you left. You needed to go to secure your position with the paper. Otherwise, you were going to be stuck in a dead-end forever. You've done it, and made a name for yourself besides. All the papers are chomping at the bit to have you! You may not believe me until you see him, but he's as proud of you as I am."
Tom's eyes brightened slightly, but Sybil could still see some skepticism in them. "Really?" he asked.
Sybil nodded and kissed him.
Tom sighed, as he pulled away. "I guess I won't stop wondering if I did the right thing."
"You went for us, for him," Sybil said smiling. "But never mind me. Let's go home, and you can see for yourself."
With his small suitcase in hand, they set off. By the time they hopped off the tram to walk the last few blocks to his mother's house, Tom was exhausted and nervous in equal measure. He couldn't help but feel a lump form in the back of his throat as Sybil giddily opened the door.
"Colin! Mummy's back!" She called out. "I've got your surprise."
The shuffling of tiny feet could be heard down the hall, and with one more shining smile at Tom, she moved out of the way so he could step forward to see his son. Colin stopped short about ten feet away, realizing that his mother wasn't alone. But it wasn't until Tom kneeled down to his level that the young boy, now four, got a good look at who it was.
His small face crumpled into a big sob, and Tom's shoulder's sagged sadly. But before Tom could reassure Colin, the little boy ran into his father's arms and buried his face into his shoulder. Tom was so overcome with emotion at the gesture that he nearly fell over.
He held his son tightly for several minutes. Once both of their tears were dry, Tom brought Colin into his arms and stood.
Colin grinned at his mother and said, "Da's home!"