**Diary Entry**
How could he? Mum passed away just a few months ago, and already he’s brought *her* into the house…
Emily raced home from school, swinging her gym bag cheerfully. Her backpack thumped against her back, but she didn’t care. She and Dad were going to the theatre tonight!
She burst into the hallway and immediately knew he wasn’t home—his coat was missing from the rack. Her spirits sank. Then she remembered the play didn’t start for another two hours. *He’ll be back. We’ll make it*, she reassured herself.
She took off her coat and waited, glancing at the clock every few minutes. Time usually dragged, but today it raced ahead, and still, no sign of Dad. They might miss it. What if he forgot? Or got held up at work? Emily fidgeted, fighting back tears, until the lock turned. She darted to the hallway.
“Finally!” she exhaled. “I’ve been waiting *forever*. We’ll be late!” she scolded, still brittle from the long wait.
Dad unhurriedly removed his coat, smoothing his already immaculate dark grey suit. Emily admired him—always put together, clean-shaven, smelling faintly of the same familiar cologne.
Her classmates complained about their fathers—too strict, or worse, drinkers. But not hers. He never raised his voice unless she deserved it. She never asked for much—just spending time with him, like tonight, was enough.
She had his sharp features: angular face, straight nose, grey eyes. She wished she’d taken after Mum—sunny, blonde, always smiling. But Dad called her his princess, his beauty. He wouldn’t say that if she weren’t lovely, would he?
“Aren’t we going?” she asked, noticing he hadn’t moved.
“We will. Just need a cuppa first. Plenty of time.”
“Fine.” She headed to the kitchen.
Dad followed, slumping into a chair, exhausted.
“Go on, get ready,” he said.
She hurried to her room, already knowing which dress to wear—a green one, Mum’s favourite. She spun in front of the mirror.
“Ready?” Dad peeked in.
“Yep!”
The car smelled of leather and air freshener, mixed with something comforting she couldn’t name. The city outside seemed to share her excitement.
The theatre always thrilled her—the glittering chandeliers, the red carpeted stairs, the hushed murmur of the crowd. Climbing those steps, she felt like royalty.
They strolled the foyer, examining portraits of past actors. The first bell rang, and she tugged Dad toward the auditorium.
“Slow down,” he laughed.
But she couldn’t wait—the velvet seats, the dimming chandelier, the heavy gold-embroidered curtains parting. She held her breath.
During intermission, Dad disappeared. She searched until she spotted him by the balcony doors—with a heavily made-up woman in an evening gown, their heads close.
Emily’s chest burned. *He left me for her.*
“Dad!” she called sharply.
He jerked away. “I got lost,” she lied, voice brittle. “The next act’s starting.”
“Who was that?” she demanded later.
“A colleague. Ran into her by chance.” *Liar*, she thought.
The play resumed, and she forgot—until later, driving home, debating the actors’ performances. Dad thought them mediocre; she found them moving.
At home, Mum asked how it was.
“Brilliant. Why didn’t you come?”
Mum and Dad exchanged a look. She looked pale, strained. But Emily babbled on, forgetting everything else.
Later, she’d realise—that was their last outing. Mum was ill. The diagnosis came later. Soon, she rarely smiled. Then, she was gone.
Sixteen-year-old Emily had known it was coming, yet Mum’s death still shocked her. She never truly accepted it. Dad seemed calm. *Didn’t he care?*
Months passed. Then Dad brought *her* home—Valerie, young, glossy, vaguely familiar.
“Emily, this is Valerie,” he stammered, pleading with his eyes.
“Pleasure,” Valerie smiled.
“Not mine,” Emily snapped, storming off.
She heard them whispering in the kitchen, Valerie’s throaty laugh. *They’re kissing*. She wanted to scream.
“What was that?” Dad demanded later.
“*You* brought your mistress here!”
“She’s not. We’re getting married. You’re grown—understand. A man needs a woman. Life goes on.”
“Do *you* understand *me*?” Her voice cracked.
Two weeks later, they married. Valerie moved in. Emily refused to acknowledge her—even for the loo.
One day, Valerie cornered her.
“You dislike me? Fine. But I’m here to stay. Truce?”
Emily ignored her.
Valerie sighed. “War it is.”
Then, Mum’s clothes vanished from the wardrobes. Emily erupted.
“You let her throw them out? *How could you?*”
“They wouldn’t fit you. We need space. And it’s *Valerie* now—my wife.”
“I hate her!” she spat. “I hate *you*! You never loved Mum!” Then it clicked. “That *woman* at the theatre—*while Mum was alive*!” She fled, slamming the door.
Dad shouted after her. She screamed back—she’d leave.
Alone, she sobbed. Where would she go? She stayed, counting the days until uni.
She moved to Manchester for school. Dad rarely called. She answered tersely. He sent money—she nearly refused, but pride lost to practicality. She never visited.
Years later, a slurred call: *”Come home.”*
She found him in a wheelchair, hollow-eyed. The flat reeked of medicine. *Valerie’s gone.*
She stayed, cleaned. A neighbour, Aunt Maud, explained: Val had left after a row. Dad collapsed.
Emily returned weekly. He recovered. Mum’s photo reappeared. After graduation, she moved back properly—job, boyfriend, marriage.
She pitied Dad. But the betrayal festered—an old splinter, never quite forgotten.
