**Just Forget**
The wind howled down the street, bitingly cold. Emily ran from school, desperate to escape the chill. Her breath came in white puffs, frosting her scarf, lashes, and the strands of hair peeking out from under her hat. Soon she’d be home—sipping hot tea with lemon, curling up on the sofa with a blanket pulled tight around her.
Just the thought made her quicken her pace. The front door of her building loomed ahead. She yanked it open and nearly collided with Mrs. Wilkins, the stout neighbour she’d never liked. The woman always stared at her, little dark eyes narrowed as if searching for something.
“Watch it, you little madam. Nearly knocked me off my feet,” grumbled Mrs. Wilkins, glaring at her.
“Sorry,” Emily mumbled.
The woman blocked the doorway, refusing to budge.
“I just can’t work it out. Your dad’s got brown eyes, your mum’s got blue, and you… And your hair’s all wrong. They’re tall, and you’re knee-high to a grasshopper.”
“So?” Emily snapped. “Do kids have to look exactly like their parents?”
She didn’t want to be rude, but she didn’t know how to move the woman aside. Pushing past wasn’t an option. Emily glanced around, hoping someone else would come, but the street was empty. Something in Mrs. Wilkins’ stare unsettled her—sharp, scrutinising. She wanted to run away.
“They don’t,” the neighbour sighed. “But I’ve lived here since before your mum moved in. Watched her grow up, get married. Then two years later, she came back from the hospital with you.”
Emily shuffled impatiently, baffled by where this was going.
“She brought you home, but I never saw her pregnant. So you tell me—why don’t you look like them?” With that, Mrs. Wilkins finally stepped aside.
Emily climbed two steps before the front door slammed behind her, making her jump. And then—it clicked. She froze mid-step, face burning, hands icy. *No, she’s just being spiteful. Lonely woman, no husband or kids, just spreading gossip. Doesn’t mean anything.* But the doubt clung to her.
Up in the flat, she pulled out the family album, curling onto the sofa. There she was—swaddled in lace, taking her first steps, a skinny little girl with a giant bouquet dwarfing her on her first day of school. And there, beside her, Mum and Dad, smiling, eyes full of love.
Keys rattled in the lock. She wiped her cheeks quickly.
“Emily? Why are you sitting in the dark?” Dad flicked the switch, the sudden light making her squint.
“Something wrong? You’ve been crying?” He sat beside her, taking the album.
“Dad… Am I not yours?”
His eyes flashed—fear, panic—and her stomach dropped. She flung off the blanket, scrambling up.
“Tell me! I have a right to know!”
She waited for him to deny it, to laugh it off—but he looked away.
“Got it,” she spat, shoving past him. Hat, boots, coat—she was out the door before he could stop her.
She barrelled down the stairs, tears blurring her vision. *He couldn’t even look at me. It’s true. I’m not theirs. Then whose am I?*
Outside, the cold hit her like a slap. No gloves, no scarf, no money. She stumbled into the next street, sinking onto a snow-dusted bench, sobbing into her hands.
“Why the fuss? What’s happened?”
She looked up—Jason, from Year 11.
“Come on. Up. You’re freezing.”
“I—I’m not going anywhere,” she hiccupped.
“You will. Or you’ll catch your death, and then *I’ll* have to explain to your parents.” He hauled her up roughly. “Stop panicking. Mum and Dad are at the theatre. We’ll have tea. Talk.”
His flat was modern, spacious. He shoved fluffy slippers onto her feet, slung a chunky jumper over her shoulders. The kettle boiled; he set out mugs, sugar, toast.
“Emily, right?”
She nodded mutely.
“So. What’s got you running out in the cold?”
She didn’t want to tell him, this boy she barely knew. But the words spilled out anyway—Mrs. Wilkins’ venom, Dad’s silence.
“And that’s it? That’s why you bolted?” Jason scoffed.
“Easy for you! Your parents are *real*.”
He leaned back. “They hit you? Drink?”
“No! Mum’s an art historian, Dad’s—” She stopped. *Mum. Dad.*
“Then what’s the issue? They love you. Fed you, clothed you. Parents aren’t who make you—they’re who raise you.”
“But he—he couldn’t even say it wasn’t true!”
Jason stood, hands in pockets. “What’ll you do? Run off? Go find your ‘real’ parents? Got money for that?”
She stared at his back, lost.
Then suddenly, he kissed her.
She shoved him away. “What the—?!”
“No harm done. You’re nobody’s. You can be mine.”
She backed toward the door, heart hammering.
“Imagine,” he said, advancing. “Your mum was sixteen. In love. Then—oops. Pregnant. Boyfriend ran. Her mum went spare. Too late for an abortion.”
Emily pressed against the door.
“Off she went to Gran’s. Had a baby. Left it there. Why keep you? She had school. Uni. Life.”
Her legs wobbled.
“Then she met someone. His dad was posh. Had a nice wedding. Two kids later, she asks—‘What if I’d had a child before you?’ He says he’d never accept it. So she kept quiet. Forgot you.”
Jason turned away. “Be grateful. You had love. Some bitter old bat opens her trap, and you throw it all away?”
She couldn’t speak.
“Go find your real mum then. Bet she’s a wreck. Drinks. Sell your things for vodka. Then you’ll wish you’d stayed put.”
A pause.
“You talk like you know,” she whispered.
“Maybe I do.”
She faltered. *What have I done? They’ll be frantic—*
“Nice story, yeah?” Jason scoffed. “Life’s uglier. Wait till you’re older. For now—go home.”
“You don’t get it. Your mum’s—”
“Dead. Died having me. Midwife from the hospital took me in. Overheard her talking. I owe her everything.”
Emily moved to the window. They stood in silence, reflections ghostly in the dark glass.
“Thanks. I… I should go.”
He shrugged. “Go on.”
She ran back, numb to the cold. The door swung open—Mum, red-eyed, waiting.
“Emily—”
She crashed into her, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I love you. You’re—you’re the best—”
Her mum held her tight. Dad joined them. They stood like that, tangled together in the tiny hallway.
Teenagers are reckless, cruel, selfish. They love hard, rebel harder.
Emily was lucky Jason found her—gave her the truth before it was too late.
Mistakes happen young. Not all can be undone.
