How could he? Mum had only been gone a few months, and already he’d brought *her* home…
Millie dashed from school, swinging her PE bag with abandon. Her backpack thumped against her shoulders, but she barely noticed. She and Dad were going to the theatre tonight!
Bursting into the hallway, she knew instantly he wasn’t home—his coat was missing from the hook. Her heart sank. Then she remembered: the show wasn’t for another two hours. *He’ll be back. We’ll still make it,* she told herself.
Shedding her uniform, she waited, checking the clock constantly. Normally, time dragged, but now the hands raced forward, and still no sign of him. If he didn’t come, if he’d forgotten or got held up at work… Millie fidgeted, fighting tears, until the lock finally turned. She bolted to the door.
“Finally!” she exhaled, voice brittle. “I’ve been waiting ages—we’ll miss it!”
Her father hung up his coat, smoothing his dark grey suit and impeccable hair. Millie admired him. Always polished, clean-shaven, smelling of that same woody cologne.
Her classmates moaned about their dads—too strict, or worse, always drinking. Not hers. He rarely shouted, never threatened. Just being with him, like tonight, was enough.
She took after him—same sharp nose, grey eyes. She’d have preferred Mum’s blonde curls and smile, but Dad called her his princess. Didn’t that mean she was pretty too?
“Aren’t we going to the theatre?” she pressed, noticing he hadn’t changed.
“We are. Just let me have some tea, alright? Plenty of time.”
In her room, she swapped her uniform for a jade-green dress, twisting before the mirror.
“Ready?” Dad peered in.
The car smelled of leather and that familiar, nameless scent. London sparkled past the window, as if sharing her joy.
The theatre stole her breath every time—chandeliers, gilt mirrors, the plush red carpet up the grand staircase. Climbing it, she felt like royalty.
The foyer hummed with murmured conversations, the carpet muffling footsteps. She tugged Dad along, gasping at actor portraits like they were new. The first bell chimed.
“Why the rush? It’s only the first call,” he chuckled.
But she needed to be in their velvet seats, watching that chandelier dim.
“It always smells amazing in here,” she sighed.
“Like dust and face paint,” he grimaced.
“I love it.”
The third bell rang. The chandelier darkened. Silence fell. The gold-embroidered curtain trembled, then swept aside—
At intermission, Dad vanished. She found him on the balcony, heads bent with a woman in a slinky evening gown. Too close. Laughing.
Millie’s throat tightened. *How dare he?*
“Dad!”
He startled, stepping back. “I got lost. The next act’s starting,” she announced brightly, ignoring the woman.
“Who was that?” she asked later.
“Just a colleague. Ran into her.”
*Liar.*
The ride home was all about the play—Dad nitpicking, Millie defending. At home, she babbled to Mum, who looked pale, exchanging glances with Dad.
Later, she’d remember this as their last outing. Mum was already ill, though she hadn’t known.
When Mum died, Millie was sixteen. Dad stayed stoic—how? She drowned in grief, but time numbed the pain.
Then he brought *her* home. Valeria. Younger. Overdone makeup. Familiar, somehow.
“This is Millie. And Valeria…” Dad hesitated, pleading with his eyes: *Behave.*
“Lovely to meet you,” Valeria simpered.
“Not mutual,” Millie spat, slamming her door.
She heard them laughing. Kissing. *How could he?*
“That was disgraceful,” Dad snapped later.
“She’s your *mistress*!”
“We’re getting married. You’re old enough to understand—”
“Do *you* understand *me*?” Her voice cracked.
Two weeks later, Valeria moved in. Millie refused to acknowledge her, even when Valeria tried to talk. “War it is, then,” Valeria shrugged, leaving.
Then Mum’s clothes vanished from the wardrobes.
“You let her *throw them out*?” Millie screamed. “I *hate* you! You never loved Mum—wait, that’s your *colleague*! From the theatre! You were cheating even then—”
Dad yelled back. She threatened to leave.
But she stayed. Barely speaking. Leaving for uni in Manchester, ignoring his calls, spending his money out of spite.
Years later, a slurred call: “Come home.”
The flat reeked of medicine. Dad slumped in a wheelchair, frail. Valeria was gone—left after his stroke.
Tears pricked Millie’s eyes as she hugged him.
She cleaned, visited weekly. Mum’s photo reappeared. After graduation, she moved back, found a job, fell in love.
She pitied him. But the betrayal—of Mum, of *her*—lingered like a splinter, impossible to forgive.
