“Who is my father?”
“Liz, shall we go to the cinema on Sunday?”
“I don’t know. Mum won’t let me out in the evening. Maybe in the afternoon.”
“We’ll go in the afternoon. Shall I get the tickets?” Tom asked hopefully.
Liz glanced up at the third-floor windows. Had she imagined it, or had her mother’s face flashed behind the glass? Her mood soured instantly. She snatched her bag from Tom and took a step back.
“Fine, I’ll go. See you tomorrow.” She hurried toward the flats, irritation simmering.
“Always watching me like I’m some criminal. All the other girls go out with boys, but I’m only allowed out in the daytime. Normal parents, but me…” she fumed, climbing the stairs.
Inside, she tiptoed, switching off the hall light before slipping past her mother’s door.
“Are you eating?” Her mother’s voice caught her just as she touched her bedroom handle.
Liz rolled her eyes and turned. “What if I’m not?” she shot back.
“Why are you so rude?”
“Why are you always spying on me?”
“I wasn’t spying. I just looked out the window,” her mother replied evenly.
“Right. Funny how you never look out when I’m home,” Liz sneered. “I’ve got loads of work.” She slammed her door, counting silently.
One, two, three…
Usually, by five, her mother would burst in, scolding her for ingratitude, for being impossible. But tonight, nothing. Liz reached ten, unnerved. She changed, pulled out her books, and sat at her desk.
She was hungry, but eating meant facing her mother’s interrogation. The footsteps outside paused. Liz hunched over her book, pretending to study.
“May I come in?” Her mother’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant.
Liz blinked. No apologies—ever.
“I need to tell you something.” Her mother sat on the bed. “A woman called… Your father lived with her. He’s passed away. The funeral’s tomorrow.”
Liz’s breath caught. “How?”
“Heart attack. If you come, wear something dark.”
“That’s all you have to say?” Liz shot up, the chair scraping. “He’s dead, and you’re talking about clothes?”
“Must you always fight? He left us, remember?”
“Because you never loved him!” Liz’s voice cracked.
“Stop shouting about things you don’t understand.”
“I do! He told me before he left. He said you never cared. Why did you even marry him? You should’ve left us alone—he loved me, unlike you!” She collapsed at the desk, sobbing.
Her mother’s hand brushed her shoulder. Liz jerked away.
“I’ll call the school in the morning,” her mother said tonelessly, leaving.
Later, Liz dug out an old photo album. There they were—her father smiling, her clutching candyfloss. She tugged the photo free, tears splashing the image.
***
He’d left when Liz was eleven. No fights, no warning. Just quiet detachment, unlike her friend’s affectionate parents.
“Dad, are you really gone?” she’d asked when he met her after school.
“I can’t stay. Your mother doesn’t love me. I held on too long.”
“But I love you.”
“And I love you.” He ruffled her hair. “You’ll understand when you’re older. Obey your mum.” He walked her home but didn’t enter.
“Dad!” she’d called after him. He never turned.
“He’s got another woman,” her mother later said.
“Children?”
“Probably…”
***
“Liz, wake up,” her mother’s voice cut through her sleep. “We must go to the mortuary.”
Liz bolted upright, fumbling for the photo now propped on her desk.
“Hurry,” her mother said, withdrawing.
Dressed in jeans and a black jumper, Liz found her mother sipping coffee in the kitchen. She couldn’t eat, just stared out the window.
At the mortuary, few mourners stood along the walls. A plump woman wept by the coffin. Liz shuddered—the man inside bore no resemblance to her father. Her mother stood dry-eyed, detached.
At the graveside, snow flurries bit their faces. When the coffin lowered, everyone cried—except her mother.
Back home, over tea, Liz spat, “You couldn’t even pretend to care? No wonder he left.”
The room dimmed with evening when her mother finally spoke.
“The man we buried today wasn’t your father.”
Liz stiffened. “Liar.”
“He asked me never to tell you. But he’s gone now.”
“Then who is?”
Her mother hesitated. “When I was sixteen, I fancied an older boy. Before he left for the army, I confessed my love—like some silly romance. He… took advantage. I fought, but he was drunk, stronger. Later, I realised I was pregnant.”
Her grandmother had refused an abortion. They moved, changed schools.
“And him?” Liz demanded.
“When he returned, your gran confronted him. He denied everything, said I’d trapped him. He married someone else.”
“So you married Dad—for me.”
“He was kind. But I couldn’t love him. I failed you both.”
Liz recoiled. “Where is he now? My real father.”
“Why? He’d deny you, just like before. He has a family.”
Tom called that weekend, suggesting the cinema. Instead, they huddled in a café. Liz spilled everything.
“Two fathers, yet none,” she muttered, stirring her coffee.
“Your mum told you so you’d choose—or not. Forgive her. She’s trying.”
“She sees *him* when she looks at me.”
“Then stop choosing. The man who raised you *was* your dad.”
“Easy for you.”
“Is it? Some parents abandon their kids. You’ve a mum who stayed.”
Outside, sleet threatened. Liz shivered.
“Let’s skip last lesson tomorrow,” Tom said. “Go to the pics.”
“Alright.”
As they walked, Liz mused how teenage turmoil twists perspective—how first loves and rebellions blind you to those who’ve always been there. But time untangles it all.
Growing up means learning to listen. To forgive. To see.
