**Diary Entry**
How could he? Mum had only been gone a few months, and he’d already brought *her* into the house…
Lizzie ran home from school, swinging her shoe bag carelessly. Her backpack thumped against her shoulders, but she barely noticed. Tonight, she and Dad were going to the theatre!
When she burst into the hallway, she knew straightaway Dad wasn’t home—his coat wasn’t on the hook. Her heart sank. Then she realised the play wasn’t for another two hours. *He’ll be back, we’ll make it,* she assured herself.
She waited, glancing at the clock every few minutes. Time usually dragged, but today the hands raced ahead while Dad stayed missing. What if he forgot? What if work held him up? Lizzie fidgeted, close to tears, when finally, the lock turned. She dashed to the door.
“Finally!” she huffed. “I’ve been waiting ages—we’re going to be late!”
Dad took his time hanging up his coat, smoothing his already-perfect hair. He looked smart as ever in his grey suit, smelling faintly of the same aftershave he always wore. Lizzie admired him for that—always put together, never shouting, never unfair. Some of her classmates complained about their dads—too strict, always drinking. Not hers.
She took after him—tall, angular, with the same straight nose and grey eyes. She wished she’d got Mum’s smile, her fair curls, but Dad called her his princess. Surely that counted for something?
“Aren’t we going?” Lizzie asked, watching him settle in.
“Of course. Just let me have a cuppa first, alright? We’ll make it.”
She nodded and went to the kitchen, where he sat heavily at the table, looking tired, lost in thought.
“Go get ready,” he said.
Lizzie hurried to her room and dug out her favourite emerald dress. She twirled in front of the mirror.
“All set?” Dad appeared in the doorway.
“Yep!”
The car smelled of leather and air freshener, something familiar she couldn’t name. The city outside seemed to hum with her excitement.
The theatre always took her breath away—the chandeliers, the grand staircase with its red carpet, the portraits of actors lining the walls. Walking up, she felt like royalty.
In the buzzing foyer, couples murmured, footsteps muffled by thick carpet. The sound of hushed voices reminded her of rustling autumn leaves. She tugged Dad’s sleeve as the first bell rang.
“Easy, there’s still time,” he chuckled.
But Lizzie wanted to be inside, sinking into plush velvet, watching the chandelier dim. She craned her neck, mesmerised.
“Smells nice in here,” she sighed.
“Dust and stage makeup,” Dad grimaced.
“I like it.”
The lights faded, the curtain rose—and she was lost in the story.
At intermission, Dad vanished. She found him on the balcony, whispering with a heavily made-up woman in a long dress. Their heads were almost touching.
Lizzie’s chest tightened. “Dad!”
He jerked away.
“I couldn’t find you! It’s almost time!”
His excuse—*just a colleague*—didn’t fool her.
The play ended. On the drive home, they argued about the acting, Lizzie insisting it was brilliant, Dad unimpressed.
Mum was pale when they got back. Lizzie didn’t notice—too busy gushing about the show.
It was the last time they went to the theatre. Later, she’d learn Mum had been ill. For a year and a half, Lizzie watched her fade. She took over cooking, cleaning, her stomach twisting when she asked Dad, “She won’t die, right?”
“She won’t,” he said. But she did.
Lizzie was sixteen. She *knew* it was coming—yet somehow, it still blindsided her. Dad stayed calm. How? Didn’t he care?
They lived alone until he brought *her* home—Valerie, young, polished, vaguely familiar. That same woman from the theatre.
“Nice to meet you,” Valerie smiled.
“Not really,” Lizzie snapped, locking herself in her room, tears burning. How *could* he?
Dad’s excuses—*we’re getting married, life goes on*—meant nothing. Valerie moved in. Lizzie refused to acknowledge her.
Then Mum’s clothes disappeared.
“You let her *throw them out*?” Lizzie screamed.
“You’d keep them forever?” Dad sighed. “We need the space.”
“You *cheated*!” The realisation hit. “Mum was still alive, and you—”
He shouted. She shouted back.
For a year, she endured icy silence, left for uni, ignored his calls. But when he slurred, “*Come home*,” something in his voice made her rush back.
The flat smelled stale. Dad sat slumped in a wheelchair, frail. No sign of Valerie.
Tears pricked Lizzie’s eyes as she hugged him.
She stayed. Cleared the mess. Mrs. Davies from next door helped—she’d been Mum’s friend.
“She left when he got sick,” Mrs. Davies said.
Lizzie visited weekly, watched him recover. Mum’s photo reappeared on the mantel.
After graduation, she moved back properly. Got a job. Met a bloke. Married him.
She loved Dad. But the betrayal—of Mum, of *her*—stuck like a thorn, too deep to forget. Too deep to forgive.
