**The “Defective” Father**
For as long as I can remember, Mum and I were stuck in the same old loop. She’d leave for work at the crack of dawn—sweeping the streets of our neighbourhood in Sheffield. By lunchtime, she’d be back clutching a cheap bottle of vodka. By eight in the evening, she’d be out cold—snoring behind her bedroom door, worn out and drunk.
At least we had separate rooms. Gave me some peace to do my homework.
Some days, Mum didn’t drink. Those were the best. We’d clean, bake fairy cakes, crack jokes. I lived for those moments. Foolishly, I thought if I just tried hard enough, if I was good enough, she’d want more days like that. But morning always rolled around, and back came the vodka, the silence, the empty stare.
When I was three, things were different. Mum worked at a corner shop, Dad drove a double-decker bus. I remember one sweltering summer day—the pavement so hot it could melt your trainers—the three of us walking through the park. Dad bought us ice cream, and when his scoop plopped onto the ground, a shaggy mutt bolted over and licked it up in a flash. We laughed until we cried. Mum shared hers with him.
Then, just like that, it all ended. A stranger knocked on our door with news: Dad had died in a crash. The bus brakes had failed, and he’d steered it into a ditch to save the passengers—taking the hit himself.
After that, Mum cracked. The drinking started. She lost her job, ended up as a street cleaner. Survival mode.
When I turned fourteen, along came Uncle Dave. Handsome. Sober. I couldn’t fathom what he saw in Mum—though she still had a decent figure, her face not yet ravaged by the bottle. Turned out, he was just short on rent.
Still, his arrival worked like magic. Mum almost quit drinking, started cooking again, smiling. He wasn’t exactly Prince Charming, but at least he didn’t drink or hit us. Small mercies.
Six months later, Mum told me she was pregnant. For some mad reason, she left the decision—keep it or not—up to me. I was over the moon. Hoped a baby would fix her for good. Dreamed of pushing a pram, having a little sister. Don’t know why, but I just knew it’d be a girl.
Mum listened, eyes shining. Even Uncle Dave seemed chuffed. Said he’d “always wanted a kid.”
Then, after a fortnight, the cracks showed. He grew sullen, tight-fisted. Left less for groceries, came home late. Mum, floating on cloud nine, noticed nothing. I noticed everything.
The night Mum went into labour, Uncle Dave rang the hospital two hours in.
“Hello? Has Evans had the baby yet? A boy? Right. Wait—what did you say?” His voice cut out. His face went slack. He hung up. Sat silent.
“What’s wrong with Mum?” I grabbed his sleeve. “Tell me!”
He looked at me with eerie detachment. “Liz had a defect. Some underdeveloped lad. Not my problem. Been wanting out anyway. Got a proper woman now—one with a flat, some savings. No dodgy babies. Tell your mum not to expect me back.”
He stood, casually packing his things. I just stood there, watching our life implode.
“You—you utter prat!” I spat. “That’s your child! What are we supposed to do now? You can’t just walk out!”
He smirked, giving me a greasy once-over. “You’re cute when you’re angry. Shame you’re jailbait.”
I recoiled, slammed my bedroom door, shaking. An hour later, the front door banged shut. He was gone.
That was the longest night of my life. I sobbed into my pillow, dreading Mum’s heartbreak. Blamed myself—I’d talked her into keeping the baby.
Nine years passed. I grew up, got married. My two-year-old, Lily, played in the living room. And little Maisie—that same “defective” baby—was now a bright, brilliant girl. We were happy.
Then, one Sunday morning, the doorbell rang. Lily and Maisie raced to answer it. I tried to call out, “Ask who it is!”—but too late.
A scruffy, sunken-eyed bloke in a saggy jacket stood there.
“Liz in?” he rasped.
I squinted. Uncle Dave. Only now—haggard, worn, worthless.
“Thought I’d… well. It’s my son, innit? I ought to step up. A father’s duty. Where’s Liz? Back on the sauce?”
I stared, icy.
“Liz doesn’t live here. And you don’t have a son. The hospital mixed up names—Evans was some other woman. Mum had a girl. Healthy. Gorgeous. This is Maisie.” I nodded at my sister. “Well, Mais? Fancy this ‘dad’?”
Maisie wrinkled her nose like she’d smelled something off. “I’ve already got a dad. Dad John. Best one there is.”
She took Lily’s hand and skipped off.
“See?” I said softly. “Thought leaving would wreck us? Backfired. Mum didn’t relapse. She bloomed, raising Maisie. Met John—a proper man. They live nearby. And yes, he’s a real father to us.”
“Kat, who’s there?” John called from the bathroom.
“No one, love. Literally no one,” I shouted back.
As I shoved that man out the door, I felt it—lighter. Brighter. For nine years, part of me had waited for this. Now? Closure. No more shadows in this house.
