**The Flawed Father**
For as long as I could remember, Mum and I were trapped in the same endless cycle. Every morning, she’d leave for work—sweeping the streets of our estate in Sheffield. By afternoon, she’d return with a plastic bottle of cheap vodka clutched in her hand. By eight in the evening, she’d be asleep—exhausted, drunk, snoring behind her closed bedroom door.
At least we had separate rooms. I could do my homework in peace.
There were days when Mum didn’t drink. Then, we’d clean together, bake scones, laugh. I lived for those moments. I used to believe that if I tried hard enough, if I was good enough, she’d want more days like that. But morning always came, and the cycle repeated—vodka, silence, empty eyes.
When I was three, things were different. Mum worked at the corner shop, Dad drove a coach. I remember a summer day, the three of us walking through the park under a scorching sun, the pavement so hot it shimmered. Dad bought us ice cream. His scoop tumbled from the cone—just as a shaggy mutt swooped in and lapped it up. We laughed until we cried. Mum shared hers with him.
Then it all ended. A stranger came to our door with the news—Dad had died in an accident. The coach’s brakes had failed, and he’d swerved into a ditch to save the passengers, taking the full force himself.
After that, Mum fell apart. Started drinking. Lost her job. Ended up as a street sweeper. Our life became about survival.
When I turned fourteen, *he* showed up—Uncle Dave. Handsome. Sober. I couldn’t fathom what he saw in Mum—though she still looked alright, slender, her face not yet ravaged by alcohol. Turned out he just needed a place to stay.
But his arrival worked like magic on Mum. She almost quit drinking, cooked again, smiled. He wasn’t affectionate, but at least he didn’t drink or raise a hand to us. Small mercies.
Six months later, Mum told me she was pregnant. And for some reason, the choice—keep it or not—she left to *me*. I remember my joy. My hope that a baby would bring her back for good. I dreamed of pushing a pram, of having a little *sister*. Somehow, I just knew—it’d be a girl.
Mum listened with tears in her eyes. Uncle Dave even seemed pleased. Said he’d *always wanted a kid*.
But two weeks later, he changed. Grew sullen. Left less money for food, came home late. Mum floated in her own world, oblivious. I was terrified.
The night Mum was taken to the hospital, Uncle Dave called after two hours.
“Hello? Has Elaine given birth yet? A boy? Right. What’d you say?” His voice faltered, his face twisted. He hung up. Sat silent.
“What’s wrong with Mum?” I grabbed his sleeve. “Tell me!”
He looked at me—cold, detached—and muttered:
“Ellie had a *freak*. A deformed boy. Not my problem. I’ve overstayed anyway. Got a proper woman now—not some broke drunk, but one with a house, money. No *defective* babies. Tell your mum not to count on me.”
He stood, gathering his things. I just watched, our life collapsing.
“You’re—you’re a *bastard*!” I choked out. “This is *your* child! What do we do now? You can’t just *leave*!”
He smirked, eyes raking over me.
“You’re pretty when you’re angry. Shame you’re jailbait.”
I stumbled back, slamming my door, shaking. An hour later, the front door shut. He was gone.
That was the darkest night of my life. I sobbed into my pillow, dreading Mum’s heartbreak. Blamed myself—*I* had talked her into keeping the baby.
Nine years passed. I grew up, married. My daughter, Sophie, played in the lounge. Little *Martha*—my sister—had blossomed into a bright, clever girl. Our home was warm. Full of love.
That Sunday morning, the doorbell rang. Sophie and Martha raced to answer. I barely had time to shout, “*Ask who it is!*”
On the step stood a hunched, unshaven man in a stained jacket.
“Ellie home?” he rasped.
I stared—*Uncle Dave*. Older. Worn. Worthless.
“Thought I’d… It’s my son. I… I should come back. Still his dad… Where’s Ellie? Back on the bottle?”
My voice was ice.
“Ellie doesn’t live here. You don’t *have* a son. The hospital mixed up the names—*Ellison*, not ours. Mum had a girl. A healthy, beautiful girl.” I nodded at Martha. “Well, love? Fancy *this* as your dad?”
Martha shuddered, as if from a chill, then said, calm and clear:
“I’ve already got a dad. Dad Jack. The kindest, *realest* dad.”
She took Sophie’s hand and walked away.
“*Hear that?*” I whispered. “You thought running would break us? Wrong. Mum didn’t drink—she raised Martha, found happiness. Met Jack. Good man. Lives nearby. He’s our *real* father.”
“Kate, who’s there?” Jack called from the bathroom.
“*No one, love. Just… no one.*”
And as I pushed that man out the door, something lifted. For nine years, part of me had waited for him. Now—*closure*. No more shadows in our home.
