“Who’s my real dad then?”
“Hey, Emily, wanna go to the cinema this Sunday?”
“Dunno. Mum never lets me out in the evenings. Maybe during the day.”
“We’ll go in the afternoon then. I’ll grab the tickets?” Jack asked hopefully.
Emily glanced up at the third-floor window. Had she just seen her mum’s face flicker behind the glass? Her mood soured instantly. She snatched her bag from Jack and stepped back.
“Right, I’d better go. See you tomorrow.” She hurried toward the building.
“Always watching me like I’m some kind of criminal. All my mates hang out with boys whenever, but I’m stuck with daylight hours. Everyone’s got normal parents except me…” she fumed, stomping up the stairs.
She slipped into the flat, careful not to make noise, flipped off the hallway light, and tiptoed past her mum’s room.
“Hungry?” Her mum’s voice stopped her just as she reached her door.
Emily rolled her eyes and turned.
“What if I’m not?” she shot back.
“Why d’you always snap at me?”
“Why d’you always spy on me?”
“I wasn’t spying. Just looked out the window,” her mum said calmly.
“Yeah, right. Never see you peeking when I’m actually home,” Emily muttered. “Got loads of revision.” She slammed the door behind her, flicked on the light, and counted under her breath: “One, two, three…”
Usually, by five, her mum would burst in, ranting about disrespect, calling her uncontrollable and rude. One more stunt like this, one more door slammed in her face…
Emily reached ten. Silence. Weird. She changed, dumped her books on the desk, and sat.
She was starving, but no way was she facing her mum over food—interrogation central. How could she *not* bite back? Footsteps paused outside her door. Emily hunched over her book, pretending to study. “Here we go.”
The door creaked open.
“Mind if I come in?” Her mum stepped inside.
That was new. No apology, ever—just barging in.
“Need to tell you something,” her mum said, perching on the edge of the bed.
Emily feigned reading but absorbed nothing, pulse hammering.
“A woman called… Your dad lived with her. Said he’s passed. Funeral’s tomorrow.” Her mum spoke evenly, pausing between phrases—uncharacteristically measured.
“How?” Emily’s head jerked up.
“Heart attack. If you come, wear something dark.”
“And you’re *this* calm?” Emily shot up, chair screeching. “Hear yourself? *If*? You’re talking about Dad *dying*! ‘Wear something dark’—” she mocked.
“Impossible to talk to you.” Her mum sighed, standing. “He walked out on us, remember?”
“Because you never loved him!” Emily’s voice cracked.
“Stop shouting. You don’t know what you’re on about.”
“I do! Dad told me before he left. Said you never loved him. Why’d you even marry him? Should’ve left us together. *He* loved me—unlike you.” Sobs wrecked her words as she collapsed onto the desk.
A hand touched her shoulder. She flinched it off.
“I’ll call school tomorrow, say you’ll miss lessons.” Her mum left without another word.
Once cried out, Emily dug an album from the drawer. A rare photo: her dad grinning, her clutching candyfloss. She pulled it free, tracing his face between hiccuping breaths.
***
He’d left when she was eleven. No shouting, no clues—just gone. They barely spoke at home. No jokes, no teasing, no kisses like her mate’s parents.
“Dad, are you really leaving us?” she’d asked after school one day.
“Can’t live like this, love. Your mum doesn’t love me. Stuck it out too long already.”
“I love you,” she’d whispered.
“Love you too.” He ruffled her hair. “You’ll understand when you’re older. Listen to your mum.” He walked her home but didn’t come up.
“Dad!” she yelled after him. He didn’t look back.
“He’s with someone else,” her mum said later.
“Kids?”
“Dunno. Probably.”
***
“Emily, up.” Her mum’s voice cut through her fog. “Mortuary soon.”
The word yanked her awake. She groped the crumpled sheets.
“Looking for this?” Her mum held up the photo by the desk. “Hurry. We’ll be late.”
In the kitchen, her mum sipped coffee while Emily stared, appetite gone.
“Ready? Let’s go.” Not another word till the mortuary. Few mourners—strangers, mostly. A plump woman wept by the coffin. Must’ve been the caller.
Emily trembled. The waxy man inside wasn’t her dad. She fixed on his framed photo instead. Her mum stood dry-eyed, detached—like burying a stranger.
On the bus, whispers curled around her: “*No kids with Nina…*” “*Poor love, all alone…*” Hushed mentions of her and her mum.
The cemetery bit with cold. Sleet needled her face. As dirt thudded on the coffin, everyone cried—except her mum.
They skipped the wake. Thank God. She’d have choked on food.
“Couldn’t even fake one tear? No wonder Dad left,” Emily spat over tea later. She stormed to her room.
Dusk bled through the curtains when her mum sat at the foot of the bed. Emily pretended to sleep.
“The man we buried today wasn’t your father.”
Emily froze. She twisted onto her back. In the gloom, her mum’s profile gave nothing away.
“Made that up just now to make me feel better?”
“He asked me not to tell. Treated you as his. But he’s gone. You deserve the truth.”
“Who *is* my dad, then?”
“Not now.”
“*Now.*” Emily sat up, putting distance between them.
“Year above me in school. I fancied him. When he got called up for National Service, I told him I’d wait—proper little Jane Eyre, I was.” A bitter laugh. “He just… took what he wanted. Drunk. Rough. Not how I pictured first times.”
Emily’s stomach lurched.
“Gran wouldn’t let me abort. ‘He’ll marry you,’ she said. But when he got back, he denied everything. Said I’d trapped him.”
“And you never saw him again?”
“Why would I? Met your stepdad at work later. Gran pushed me to marry him—‘for the child.’ He tried. But I couldn’t… love him. So he left. And now you know why I’m like this.”
Emily swallowed. “Where is he? My real dad?”
“Why?”
“I want to *see* him.”
“Think he’ll care? Fifteen years, never once looked for you.”
Now it made sense—the distance, the rules.
***
Jack called Saturday, reminding her about the cinema. They met but wandered aimlessly till cold drove them into a café.
“Turns out I had two dads. Now none,” Emily muttered, stirring cold coffee.
“Your mum told you so *you* choose who counts. Or don’t. At least you’ve got her.”
“She doesn’t love me. Says I remind her of *him*.”
“You’re just lost. Stop picking fathers. You’re not a kid. Whoever raised you—that’s your dad.”
“Simple for you.” She eyed him.
“Life *is*. Some never meet their parents. You’ve got a mum, two dads. Grow up, have kids—who cares about the past?”
Outside, leaden clouds sagged. Snow threatened.
“Train or walk?” Jack asked.
“Not ready to go home.”
“Let’s bunk off tomorrow. Catch the film then?”
“Yeah.”
They walked, chatting. At that age, every hurt feels eternal. Truths warp. The familiar seems hostile; strangers promise escape. Bridges burn too easily.
But time untangles it. Puts wounds in perspective. That’s the point of it all—figuring out who you are.
