“Who is my real father?”
“Emma, do you want to go to the cinema on Sunday?”
“I don’t know. Mum won’t let me out in the evening. Maybe in the afternoon.”
“Let’s go in the afternoon then. I’ll get the tickets?” Liam asked hopefully.
Emma lifted her gaze toward the third-floor windows. Had she imagined it, or had her mother’s face just flickered in the glass? Her mood soured instantly. She snatched her bag from Liam and took a step back.
“Alright, I’d better go. See you tomorrow,” she muttered before hurrying toward the flat entrance.
“Always watching me like I’m some criminal,” she seethed silently, climbing the stairs. “All my friends are allowed out with boys, but not me. Everyone else has normal parents, and I’m stuck with—”
She slipped inside the flat, careful not to make noise. Turning off the hallway light, she darted past her mother’s door.
“Are you eating?” her mother’s voice chased her just as she touched her bedroom doorknob.
Emma rolled her eyes and turned. “What if I say no?” she challenged.
“Why are you being like this?”
“Why are you always spying on me?” Emma shot back.
“I wasn’t spying. I just looked out the window,” her mother replied calmly.
“Right. Funny how you never glance out the window when I’m actually home,” Emma retorted acidly. “I’ve got loads to study.” She slammed the door behind her, flicked on the lamp, and counted under her breath. “One, two, three…”
Usually, by five, her mother would burst in—scolding her for the disrespect, calling her uncontrollable, rude, impossible. One more incident like this, one more door slammed in her face, and—
She reached ten. Silence.
Strange.
Emma changed, pulled out her books, and sat at her desk. She was starving, but the thought of facing her mother over dinner made her stomach knot. Any minute now—the interrogation would begin. How could she *not* snap back?
A creak outside the door. Emma stiffened, bending over her book in pretend concentration.
“Can I come in?”
The words stunned her. Her mother *never* asked.
She stepped inside, settling on the edge of the bed. “I need to tell you something.”
Emma kept her eyes glued to the page, but the words blurred. She held her breath.
“A woman called… She lived with your father. He’s passed away. The funeral’s tomorrow.” Her mother’s voice was flat, measured—utterly unnatural.
“How?” Emma’s head jerked up.
“Heart attack. If you’re coming, wear something dark.”
Emma shot to her feet, the chair screeching against the laminate. “You’re saying this like you’re discussing the *weather*! ‘Wear something dark’?” she mimicked viciously. “He was my *father*!”
Her mother exhaled, standing. “This is impossible. He *left* us. Or did you forget?”
“Because you never loved him!” The words choked her, tears burning.
“Keep your voice down. Don’t speak 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 just gone and left us together. At least he loved me—unlike *you*!” Her voice broke. She collapsed at her desk, sobbing into her arms.
A hand touched her shoulder. She wrenched away.
“I’ll call the school in the morning. Tell them you’ll be absent.” The door clicked shut.
Later, red-eyed, Emma pulled an old photo album from the drawer. There it was—one of the few pictures with her father. He was smiling; she clutched a swirl of candyfloss. She freed the photo, tracing his face with shaking fingers.
***
He’d left when she was eleven. No shouting, no fights—just silence, then absence.
“Dad, are you really leaving us?” she’d asked when he met her after school.
“I can’t stay. Your mother doesn’t love me. I’ve tried.”
“I love you,” she’d whispered.
“Me too.” He ruffled her hair. “You’ll understand when you’re older. Listen to your mum.” He walked her home but didn’t come inside.
“Dad!” she called after him. He didn’t turn.
“He’s got another woman,” her mother later explained.
“Kids too?”
“No idea. Probably.”
***
“Emma, get up.” Her mother’s voice cut through her sleep. “We need to leave for the mortuary.”
She jolted upright, scrambling for the photo.
“Looking for this?” Her mother gestured to the picture beside her monitor. “Hurry. We’ll be late.”
Dressed in jeans and a black jumper, Emma sat wordlessly at the kitchen table while her mother sipped coffee.
The mortuary was hushed. Strangers lined the walls. Only a small, weeping woman stood by the coffin—the caller, Emma guessed. She barely glanced at the body—it wasn’t him. Instead, she stared at the framed photo. *This* was the face she remembered.
Her mother stood dry-eyed, detached.
At the graveside, whispers slithered around her: *Such a shame he and his wife never had children… Poor Nina, left all alone…*
Later, over tea, Emma lashed out. “You couldn’t even *pretend* to care? No wonder he left.”
Her mother sighed.
Then, in the dimming light of her room, the truth spilled out—an assault at sixteen, a forced marriage, a life welded to resentment.
“And *he* never wanted to see me?” Emma whispered.
“Would you?”
That night, Liam called about the cinema. They took a bus into town, warming up in a café.
“I had two fathers,” Emma murmured, stirring her tea. “Now I have none.”
Liam shrugged. “You’ve got a mum. Don’t be hard on her.”
“She *hates* me. Says I look like *him*.”
“You’re not her. And you’re not a kid. Who raised you? That’s your dad.”
Emma scoffed. “Easy for you to say.”
Outside, the sky hung low and heavy.
“Tomorrow after school?” Liam nudged. “We can skip last period.”
“Okay.”
Walking home, they talked—about nothing, about everything.
At that age, everything cuts deep. Every shadow looms larger, every love feels like the first and last. The future is a distant country, and the past clings like cobwebs.
But time untangles things. People change. Wounds scar over.
And somewhere in the mess, you find yourself.
