ON SUNDAY, I was walking with my son Lewis along a street I hadn’t visited for a long time.

A 30-year-old memory from that same street. It was a memory about a phone box that once stood there. Or rather, the memory was about a telephone call I made from the phone box.

I did a calculation in my head and, yes, it was almost exactly 30 years ago to the day I was in this same spot.

I recall it because of the emotion of that call.

“It was over there, I’m sure of it,” I said to myself, as I looked for the phone box, although I already knew that it would have been removed. The red phone box is now a rare sight, and those that survive have often been turned into tiny coffee shops, works of art, or even mini libraries.

But this one, on a quieter street, had been removed.

I tried to remember the exact spot and found it. The only indication now that a phone box existed there was a faint square mark on the pavement. Nobody would notice it in passing but I stood there holding my son’s hand as he wondered what I was looking at.

So I told him and he could see the shape on the pavement. We pretended to go into the phone box. But I didn’t tell my son what I was remembering.

Then, my life seemed in tatters, I was heartbroken and in genuine despair. I made a call from the phone box, desperately feeding it with coins from my pocket. I cannot remember the exact words said, but I clearly remember the emotion and the issue.

The thing I realise now is the power of my feelings wasn’t just about what had happened but it was also how it had triggered an earlier trauma.

When I ran out of money, I remember thinking: “That’s that, then.”

It felt like the end; I know that sounds dramatic, but it really did.

And it nearly was. I remember feeling a sense of relief when I’d decided how I’d end it.

I came back to the present and looked down at my son, who was still holding my hand. We were standing in the very spot where, before I became a dad, I nearly decided not to be here.

All I could think about in that moment was how glad I was that I did decide to stay.

“Maybe it’s a time portal, dad,” said my son looking at the square in the ground. “You know, like in Doctor Who, maybe we can go back in time, wouldn’t that be cool?”

I smiled and agreed. I imagined how I might explain to my 30-year-younger self that he would make it and, despite all the challenges to come, it would be worth it.

And then, I reflected on all the men who are now in that situation I once was. The grim statistic is that suicide is the biggest killer of men under 45. Money worries and breakdown in relationships are all part of it, but so also is the difficulty in talking about how you feel.

Talk saves lives, we need to learn this.

What saved me then was, I think, that I met someone who I could talk to and who listened.

Still holding my son’s hand, we walked out of the 'portal' along the street to meet the rest of our family. He had no idea what that square line in the pavement had meant to me.

He’s nine, but time flies. Soon he will be a man. We must teach our sons to talk, to acknowledge their feelings and validate them; to create safe spaces for them to express how they feel; to make it a 'manly' thing to talk.

Life is worth living, even when things seem hopeless.

“You ok, dad?”

“I am,” I said, “but if I wasn’t, I’d tell you, just like I’d like you to do the same. Can you remember to do that?”

“Ok, I will,” he said. I hoped he would truly remember.

He continued talking about his favourite movies as we went to meet the rest of our family. I glanced backwards to the square-shaped mark on the pavement, then gave my total focus on what my son was talking about.

These last 30 years have been a rollercoaster but I am so glad I’ve been on board for them.