How could he? Mum had only passed away a few months ago, and already he was bringing *her* into the house…
Jenny raced home from school, swinging her shoe bag cheerfully. Her backpack thumped against her shoulders, but she barely noticed. She and Dad were going to the theatre tonight!
She burst into the hallway and immediately knew he wasn’t home—his coat wasn’t on the rack. Her spirits sank. Then she realised the show wasn’t for another two hours. *He’ll come, we’ll make it*, she told herself.
She waited, glancing at the clock every few minutes. Time always dragged, but now it flew, and still no sign of Dad. They’d be late at this rate. What if he forgot? What if work held him back? She fidgeted, her patience wearing thin, tears prickling her eyes—until the lock turned. She shot into the hallway.
“Finally!” Jenny exhaled. “I’ve been waiting ages—we’ll miss it!” she huffed, still stewing in frustration.
Dad unhurriedly hung up his coat, smoothing his hair, though it was already perfectly set. His crisp grey suit and the familiar scent of his cologne made her proud. All her mates complained about their dads—too strict, or worse, always at the pub. Not hers. He never raised his voice unless she really deserved it.
She took after him—tall, sharp-featured, grey-eyed. She wished she’d got Mum’s dimples and blonde curls instead. But Dad called her his princess, his little doll. Surely that meant she wasn’t *completely* plain?
“Aren’t we going?” she asked, dismayed as he settled in.
“We are. Just let me have a cuppa first, alright? Plenty of time.”
“Fine,” she muttered, heading to the kitchen.
Dad slumped into a chair, exhausted and distant. “Go get ready,” he said.
She raced to her room, already knowing which dress to wear—the green one. She twirled in front of the mirror.
“Ready?” Dad peeked in.
“Yep!”
The car smelled of leather and air freshener—and something else, warm and familiar. Staring out the window, she felt as if the whole city shared her excitement.
The theatre always left her breathless. Crystal chandeliers, endless mirrors, the plush red carpet climbing the grand staircase. It felt like stepping into Buckingham Palace.
In the buzzing foyer, couples strolled under portraits of past actors. The carpet muffled footsteps; whispered chatter sounded like rustling autumn leaves. Magic hung in the air.
They wandered, Jenny gasping at familiar faces—even though she’d seen them before. The first bell rang, and she tugged Dad toward the auditorium.
“Why rush? It’s only the first call,” he laughed.
But she *needed* to be inside, sinking into velvet seats, watching the chandelier dim. She craned her neck, mesmerised.
“It smells amazing in here,” she sighed.
“Dust and stage makeup,” Dad wrinkled his nose.
“I like it,” she insisted.
The hall filled, the third bell chimed, and the chandelier darkened. The gold-embroidered curtains parted. Jenny held her breath.
At intermission, Dad went to the bar while she visited the loo. She searched everywhere—until she spotted him on the balcony with a heavily made-up woman in an evening gown, their heads bent close together.
Jenny’s chest tightened. *He left me for her.*
“Dad!” she called.
He jolted away. “I lost you,” she said brightly. “It’s starting soon.”
No mention of promised juice and cakes.
“Who was that?” she asked on the way back.
“A colleague. Ran into her by chance.” *Liar*, she thought.
The show swept her up again, pushing the woman from her mind.
On the way home, they argued over the acting. Dad said it was wooden; Jenny swore it was brilliant. At home, Mum asked how it was.
“Brilliant! Why didn’t you come?”
Mum and Dad exchanged a look. Mum seemed pale, distracted. But Jenny babbled on, forgetting everything else.
Later, she’d remember this as their last theatre trip. Mum had been at the hospital—tests confirming the worst. Jenny only learned much later.
Mum rarely smiled after that, her eyes always sad. She faded slowly, often hospitalised. Jenny took over cooking and cleaning under her guidance.
“Dad… Mum won’t die, will she?” she asked once.
“Hope not. Don’t think about it,” he said.
But she couldn’t stop.
Mum died a year and a half later. Jenny knew it was coming—she was sixteen, after all—but it still shattered her. She couldn’t fathom Dad’s calm. Didn’t he *care*?
Grief clung to her like fog. Slowly, it dulled, though waves still hit her unexpectedly.
Then one day, Dad came home with *her*—a younger, heavily made-up woman. Her face tugged at Jenny’s memory, but she couldn’t place it. Dad gazed at her like a starving man at a feast.
“This is Jenny. And this is Valerie…” He faltered, as if unsure what to call her.
“Lovely to meet you,” Valerie smiled.
“Not mutual,” Jenny snapped, storming off.
*How could he?* Mum was barely cold in the ground.
She heard their murmurs, Valerie’s throaty laugh, the pauses that *had* to mean kissing. She wanted to scream at them.
Later, Dad was livid. “What was that?”
“*You* brought your mistress here!”
“She’s not—we’re getting married. You’re old enough to understand. A man needs a woman. Life doesn’t stop—”
“Do *you* understand *me*?” Jenny’s voice cracked.
Two weeks later, they married. Valerie moved in. Jenny refused to acknowledge her—even holding it in till bursting just to avoid sharing space.
Once, Valerie sat on her bed. “You didn’t invite me.”
“I don’t like you.”
“Like it or not, I’m your dad’s wife now. Truce?”
Jenny ignored her, burying herself in a textbook.
Valerie stood. “War it is, then.”
Jenny stuck her tongue out at the door.
Then, one day, Mum’s clothes vanished from the wardrobe. Jenny exploded.
“You let her throw Mum’s things out? How *could* you?”
“They’d not fit you. We needed space—”
“I *hate* her! Hate *you*! You never loved Mum! Wait—that *colleague* from the theatre? Mum was still alive, and you—!” The realisation hit like a brick. “I *hate* you!” She slammed her door.
Dad barged in later, shouting until she screamed back, threatening to leave. He stormed out.
For a year, she endured, then left for uni. Dad called rarely; she answered tersely. He sent money—she nearly refused, but pride lost to practicality. She never visited.
Years later, he called, slurring. She rushed home, the flat reeking of medicine. He was in a wheelchair, frail.
“Jenny…” His eyes glistened.
Her anger melted. She hugged him.
Valerie was gone. A neighbour, Auntie Maggie, had been helping. She explained the fights, how Valerie left after Dad’s stroke.
Jenny visited weekly. Dad recovered. Mum’s photo reappeared. After graduation, Jenny moved back, got a job, met a bloke. Married a year later.
She pitied Dad. But the betrayal—of Mum, of *her*—stuck like a splinter, refusing to fade.
