The Toys

Author’s Note:

This dramatic monologue is inspired by Coventry Patmore’s poem “The Toys.” It reimagines a father’s moment of regret and longing as a heartfelt stage piece—one that speaks to the fragile bond between discipline and love.

(A man stands alone, dim light falling on his face. His voice is steady, but emotions stir beneath. He begins speaking—perhaps to the audience, or perhaps to God.)

You know...

my boy is not like most children.

He’s quiet. Thoughtful.

Looks at you with eyes too old for his years—

as if he’s already seen sorrow... and learned not to speak of it.

Since his mother died, it’s just been him and me.

And I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.

But there are days when my grief wears thin,

and my temper wears thinner.

Last night—

he broke the rule again.

Something small. Something stupid.

The seventh time.

And I—

I struck him.

Sent him to bed.

No kiss, no kind word.

Just anger. Cold, clean, unthinking.

His mother would have handled it better.

She always did.

Later, when the silence settled over the house

like dust on forgotten shelves,

I felt it—

the shame.

What if he’s lying there awake,

eyes open in the dark,

thinking I hate him?

So I went to him.

And there he was…

sleeping.

So still.

His lashes still wet from crying.

But no complaints.

No resistance.

Just a child,

asleep with a hurt heart.

And then I saw it.

Beside his bed,

he had laid out his treasures.

Not toys, no—

not the kind that come from shops.

But a box of counters,

a red-veined stone,

a bit of sea glass worn smooth by time,

a few shells,

a bottle with some crushed bluebells,

and two small copper coins from France.

Lined up like holy relics.

Arranged with care.

As if these small, broken things

could comfort him

when I would not.

And I...

I broke.

I kissed his face,

wiped his tears—

and left my own in their place.

Later,

when I knelt to pray,

I didn’t ask for strength,

or wisdom,

or patience.

I just wept.

And I said:

“Lord...

One day,

when I lie before You—

breathless, voiceless,

unable to argue, unable to explain—

and You look back over my life,

at the petty things I clung to,

the mistakes,

the outbursts,

the foolishness,

I pray...

You remember what I am.

A child.

Clutching my own handful of toys.

Trying, failing, hoping.

And that You’ll look at me—

as I looked at him—

and say,

‘I will be sorry...

for their childishness.’”

(He lowers his head. The light fades. Silence.)