Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the only proper

Host: The evening fog settled over the narrow London street like a tired ghost unwilling to leave. The gas lamps flickered, their light trembling in the mist, catching the glint of rain on the cobblestones. Somewhere, a piano played from an upstairs window — an old tune, slow and melancholic, like the sound of memory itself.

Inside the corner pub, the air was thick with smoke and stories. The fireplace crackled, sending waves of amber light across faces that had seen too much of life and too little of mercy.

At a small wooden table near the window sat Jack and Jeeny. Between them lay a half-empty bottle, two glasses, and a crumpled paper napkin with a single line written on it — in faded black ink:

"Fathers should be neither seen nor heard. That is the only proper basis for family life."
— Oscar Wilde

Jack: “Wilde, that magnificent bastard, always had a way of turning tragedy into wit. But this one… this one bites.”

Jeeny: “It does more than bite. It bleeds. It’s mockery with a wound inside it.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes lifted, their usual cynicism dimmed by something quieter — something like remorse. He reached for his glass, turning it slowly, watching the whiskey swirl in the firelight.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my old man worked two jobs. Left before sunrise, came home after midnight. I barely saw him. When I did, he was too tired to talk — just sat in his chair, staring at the television, cigarette in one hand, silence in the other. Maybe Wilde was right. Maybe fathers are meant to be invisible.”

Jeeny: “Invisible out of love, or invisible out of fear?”

Jack: “Does it matter? Either way, they disappear. It’s the role — the provider, the ghost of stability. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t feel. He just endures.”

Host: The fire popped, scattering a few sparks that died before they reached the floor. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the half-dark, reflecting both empathy and defiance.

Jeeny: “Endures, yes. But not lives. You think that’s noble, Jack? That’s not a man — that’s a silhouette. Wilde was making fun of that — of how society turns fathers into decorations. Strong, silent, and utterly lonely.”

Jack: “Lonely, sure. But someone has to hold the line. You can’t raise a family on feelings alone. Someone has to sacrifice, to swallow the chaos. Maybe that’s what being a father is — being the one who doesn’t get to be seen because someone has to keep the lights on.”

Jeeny: “But what good is keeping the lights on if there’s no one left to share the warmth?”

Host: Jack looked at her, his brows drawn, his jaw set. The sound of rain grew stronger against the windows, as if the world outside were echoing the uneasy rhythm inside.

Jeeny: “I taught a boy once — his name was Eli. His father was exactly like that. Always away, always working. The kid used to draw his father as a cloud. Just a shape — no face, no voice. One day, he told me, ‘He’s not gone, he’s just far away inside himself.’”

Jack: “That’s… poetic.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s tragedy.”

Host: The room quieted; even the piano upstairs had stopped. A moment of stillness lingered, heavy as a confession not yet spoken.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple — that fathers should be open, emotional, present. But the world doesn’t reward that, Jeeny. You show too much and they call you weak. You stay silent, and they call you cold. Either way, you lose.”

Jeeny: “Only if you let the world define what a father should be. Wilde’s line wasn’t an instruction — it was a mirror. He was laughing at how Victorian society caged emotion behind duty. A father who’s neither seen nor heard isn’t strong — he’s erased.”

Jack: “So what do you want him to do? Cry in front of his kids? Confess his fears at the dinner table?”

Jeeny: “Yes, maybe. Because if he doesn’t, the kids grow up thinking silence is the same as strength. And then they repeat it — generation after generation — men hiding behind walls they built for themselves.”

Host: The flames flickered, and Jack leaned back, his eyes clouded with something that wasn’t quite anger — perhaps memory, perhaps regret.

Jack: “My father died five years ago. We hadn’t spoken in months. I didn’t even make it to the hospital in time. He left me a letter — two lines. ‘You did fine, son. Don’t be like me.’ I didn’t understand it then.”

Jeeny: “You do now, don’t you?”

Jack: softly “Yeah. He was saying — don’t disappear.”

Host: The rain eased, the sound softening into a steady hum, like the heartbeat of a story coming to rest. Jeeny’s voice, low and careful, carried across the table like a whisper that knew where it was going.

Jeeny: “Being unseen isn’t strength, Jack. It’s fear in disguise. Real strength is being visible even when you’re vulnerable. It’s standing there and saying, ‘I’m human too.’”

Jack: “You think the world’s ready for fathers like that?”

Jeeny: “The world’s starving for them.”

Host: The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air. A young man entered, holding a small child’s hand. They sat by the fire, the child looking up at him, eyes wide, trust unshaken. The man smiled, unsure but present — a quiet defiance of Wilde’s joke.

Jack watched them for a long time. Then he poured what was left of the whiskey into his glass, lifted it slightly — not in celebration, but in recognition.

Jack: “Maybe Wilde wasn’t wrong. Maybe he just never had a father who tried to be more than a ghost.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was daring us to prove him wrong.”

Host: The fire burned lower, the light fading to a warm amber pulse. Outside, the rain stopped, leaving the world washed clean, glistening, alive again.

Jack: “I used to think silence was the best way to protect the people you love. But now… maybe silence is just another way of saying you’ve already left.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t leave, Jack.”

Host: He nodded, slowly. The fog outside began to lift, revealing the faint outline of dawn. The city stirred, muted, but hopeful.

Jeeny: “You know, if Wilde were alive today, I think he’d laugh at us. Then he’d write another line — one that says, ‘A father should be seen, heard, and deeply loved — for that is the only way a family breathes.’”

Jack: smiling faintly “Yeah. He probably would.”

Host: The first light broke through the window, catching the glass between them, turning the leftover whiskey to gold.

And for a moment, in the soft glow of morning, two people sat quietly — not arguing, not mourning — just understanding.

In the silence, the world seemed to whisper what Wilde could never quite say:
that love, not absence, is what gives the family its shape.