The air is crisp and biting outside. Emily dashes home from school to escape the cold, her breath forming little clouds that frost her scarf, eyelashes, and the strands of hair escaping her woolly hat. Soon, she’ll be inside, sipping steaming tea with lemon, curling up on the sofa under a blanket, warm and safe.
Just imagining home makes her quicken her steps. There’s the building now—she pulls the door open and nearly collides with Mrs. Wilkins, the short, plump neighbour from downstairs. Emily can’t stand her. There’s something sharp in the way Mrs. Wilkins narrows her small, dark eyes when she looks at her.
“Watch where you’re going, you little whirlwind,” Mrs. Wilkins snaps, glaring.
“Sorry,” Emily mutters, guilty.
The woman blocks the doorway, not budging.
“I still can’t place who you look like. Your dad’s got brown eyes, your mum’s blue—and you? And your hair’s nothing like theirs. They’re tall, but you’re barely knee-high.”
“So what?” Emily shoots back. “Do kids have to be carbon copies of their parents?”
She doesn’t mean to be rude, but she can’t shift the woman. Shoving past isn’t an option. Emily glances over her shoulder, hoping another resident might appear—but no one’s coming to help. Something about Mrs. Wilkins’ stare unsettles her. She wants to bolt, to escape those sharp, judging eyes.
“No, they don’t,” the neighbour sighs. “But I’ve lived here since the start—since before your mum married your dad. I watched her grow up, then move away when she got married. Two years later, she came back from the hospital with you.”
Emily shifts impatiently, not following.
“Came back with you—but I never saw her pregnant. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Why you don’t look like them?” Finally, Mrs. Wilkins steps aside, letting her pass.
Emily takes two steps up before the door slams shut behind her. Then, suddenly—the realisation hits. She freezes mid-step. Her face burns; her hands go icy. *No, she’s just trying to stir trouble. Lonely old woman with no husband or kids, spreading rumours. Didn’t see anything—that doesn’t prove anything.* But the words cling.
Slowly, she climbs to the third floor of the old concrete block, steps inside, strips off her coat, snatches the family album, curls onto the sofa, and flips through photos. There she is as a baby, wrapped in lace. First steps. First ribbon in her thin blonde hair. First day of school, nearly hidden behind a giant bouquet. And beside her—her mum and dad, smiling, gazing at her with love.
The key turns in the lock. She wipes her eyes.
“Em, why’re you sitting in the dark?” Her dad flicks the switch. The ceiling light blazes, making her squint.
“What’s wrong? Have you been crying?” He sits beside her, taking the album.
“Dad… am I not really yours?” she whispers.
His face twists—fear, confusion. It frightens her. She shoves the blanket aside, jumps up.
“Tell me the truth. I deserve to know!” Her voice shakes.
She waits—for him to laugh, to dismiss it. But he looks away.
“I see.” Emily bolts—grabs her coat, shoves on boots, snatches her scarf.
“Em, wait! Let me explain—”
The door slams behind her. Paint chips rain from the frame.
She races downstairs, gulping back tears. *He couldn’t look at me. It’s true. I’m not theirs. Then whose am I?*
Outside, the cold stings her tear-streaked face. No gloves, no money—just panic. Two streets over, she ducks into a courtyard, sinks onto a snow-dusted bench, and sobs into her hands.
“Why the waterworks? Something happen?”
She looks up—Daniel from Year Eleven.
“Come on, you’re coming with me,” he says firmly.
“I’m not—I’m not going anywhere,” she hiccups.
“Don’t be stupid, you’ll freeze. And I’m not leaving you here. If you catch pneumonia, I’ll have to explain to your parents why I didn’t save you. Move.”
He yanks her up.
“Chill out, my parents are at the theatre. We’ll have tea, you can tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”
Inside his flat—modern, spacious—he forces fluffy slippers on her, drapes a chunky knit jumper over her shoulders. The kettle boils. Cups clink.
“You’re Emily, right?” he asks, pouring tea.
She nods.
“So? Why’d you run?”
She hesitates. He’s just some sports guy from the year above. Why tell him? But the hurt spills out—Mrs. Wilkins’ words, her dad’s silence.
“That’s it? You bolted over *that*?”
“Easy for you—your parents are *real*,” she snaps.
“They hit you?”
“No.”
“Drink?”
“*What?* Mum’s an art historian, Dad’s—” She stops. *Mum. Dad.*
“So what’s missing? They don’t beat you, don’t drink, love you, clothe you. Parents aren’t just the ones who made you—they’re the ones who raised you.” He leans against the counter.
“What if that woman *was* lying?”
“But Dad *couldn’t look at me*!”
“So what’ll you do? Run away? Find your *real* parents? Got money for that?”
She stares at his back.
He turns suddenly—kisses her.
She shoves him. “*What the hell?*”
“What’s the big deal? You’re nobody’s. Be mine.”
She backs toward the door. He advances.
“Picture this—your *real* mum fell in love at sixteen. Got pregnant. Her boyfriend bailed. Too late for abortion. Her parents shipped her off to her gran’s. Had the baby. Left it at the hospital. No way she’d keep you—she was just a kid. School, uni, her whole life ahead.”
Emily’s back hits the door.
“She met a posh bloke later. His dad was someone. Nice wedding, two kids. One day she asked her husband—*What if I’d had a kid before you?* He said he’d never accept it. So she kept quiet. Forgot you.”
His words slap her.
“Be grateful you weren’t dumped in care. Those people *chose* you. Loved you. And you’re ready to throw it away because some bitter old bat opened her mouth?”
Her hands tremble.
“Say you find your *real* mum. What if she’s a drunk? She’ll sell your coat for vodka. Make you quit school to work. You’ll wish you’d stayed put.”
His voice is brutal.
“Your parents never looked for you. They *don’t want you*. So live your life. Be happy you’ve got people who love you. Don’t wreck it.”
“You talk like you *know*,” she whispers.
He turns to the window.
“My mum died having me. A midwife from the hospital took me from foster care. I overheard her telling her sister. I’ll *always* love her for that—for giving me a home.”
Silence.
Emily steps beside him. Their reflections blur in the dark glass.
“Thanks. I get it now. Can I go?”
“Yeah.”
Outside, the cold doesn’t touch her. She runs home—where her parents must be frantic.
She rings the bell. The door flies open—her mum’s been waiting, red-eyed.
“Emily—”
She crashes into her arms.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I love you. You’re the best—”
Her dad joins them. They cling in the cramped hallway.
Teenagers are rash. They love fast, rebel hard, judge quicker.
Emily was lucky—Daniel gave her the truth.
Mistakes happen young. Not all can be fixed.
