The wind howled through the streets, biting and relentless. Emily sprinted from school, her breath forming frosty clouds that clung to her scarf, lashes, and the loose strands of hair escaping her hat. All she wanted was to get home—to curl up on the sofa with a steaming mug of tea, wrapped in the warmth of her favourite blanket.
The thought of it made her quicken her pace. Finally, the entrance to her building came into view. She yanked the door open—only to nearly collide with Mrs. Higgins, the stout neighbour she’d never liked. Mrs. Higgins always seemed to be watching her through narrowed eyes, as if dissecting her with every glance.
“Watch where you’re going, you little whirlwind,” the woman muttered, blocking the doorway with her broad frame.
“Sorry,” Emily mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.
But Mrs. Higgins didn’t move. Instead, she fixed Emily with a piercing stare. “Funny thing. I can’t figure out who you take after. Your dad’s got brown eyes, your mum’s got blue—but you? And you’re so small. Doesn’t add up.”
“Is that a crime?” Emily shot back, trying not to sound rude. “Kids don’t have to be copies of their parents.”
She glanced around, hoping someone else would approach, but the street was empty. Something in Mrs. Higgins’ gaze unnerved her, sending a shiver down her spine. She just wanted to escape.
“No crime,” the woman sighed. “But I’ve lived here since this building went up. Watched your mother grow up, get married. Then—two years later—she came back from the hospital with you.”
Emily shifted impatiently, not understanding the point.
“Came back with you, but I never saw her pregnant. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” With a final, pointed look, Mrs. Higgins finally stepped aside.
Emily rushed up the first few steps—then froze. The door slammed shut behind her, and suddenly, the implication hit her like a slap. Her face burned; her hands turned to ice. *No. She’s just bitter. Old and alone, stirring up trouble.* But the doubt clung to her like a shadow.
On the third floor, she fumbled with the keys, stormed inside, and grabbed the family album. Curled on the sofa, she flipped through it—baby photos, her first steps, her first day at school. In every picture, her parents beamed at her with undeniable love.
Keys jingled in the lock. Her dad stepped in, flicking on the light. “Em, why’re you sitting in the dark?”
She wiped her face quickly. “Nothing.”
He sat beside her, scanning the album in her lap. His smile faltered. “What’s wrong?”
She swallowed hard. “Dad… am I not yours?”
His face drained of colour. Panic twisted his features. That silence—that awful, confirming silence—was all she needed.
She bolted. Shoved on her boots, tore her coat from the hook.
“Emily, wait!”
But she was already out the door, slamming it hard enough to crack the plaster.
She ran, tears blurring her vision. *He couldn’t even look at me. It’s true. I’m not theirs. Then whose?*
The cold air stung her tear-streaked cheeks. No gloves, no scarf, no wallet—just raw, suffocating hurt. She stumbled into the next street, collapsing onto a snow-dusted bench, sobbing into her hands.
“Oi. You alright?”
She looked up—Ryan from Year Eleven stared down at her.
“Come on,” he ordered, hauling her up. “You’ll freeze.”
She tried to resist, but his grip was firm. “Parents are out. You’ll warm up, tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”
His flat was bigger, warmer than hers. He shoved fluffy slippers onto her feet, tossed her a jumper, flicked the kettle on.
“Emily, right?” he asked, pouring tea. “What happened?”
The words spilled out before she could stop them.
“And you *ran* over that?” Ryan scoffed. “They don’t hit you? Neglect you?”
“No! Mum’s an art historian, Dad’s—” She stopped. She’d called them *Mum and Dad* without thinking.
“Then what’s the problem? Blood doesn’t make family. Love does.” He crossed his arms. “Or do you *want* to find some drunk who’d sell your coat for a bottle?”
She flinched.
“Your parents never looked for you. They *chose* you. Be grateful.”
Her throat tightened. “Easy for you to say.”
Ryan’s expression darkened. “My mum died giving birth to me. A midwife adopted me. Found out by accident.” He shrugged. “Still call her Mum.”
The weight of his words crushed her. She stood abruptly. “I should go.”
He didn’t stop her.
The cold barely registered as she sprinted home. The door flew open before she could knock—her mother stood there, eyes red, hands trembling.
“Emily—”
She crashed into her, weeping. “I’m sorry. I love you. You’re my *family*.”
Her father wrapped them both in his arms, holding tight.
Teenagers feel everything at once—love, anger, betrayal—with no room for half-measures. Emily was lucky. Ryan had given her the truth she needed.
Not every mistake can be undone. But some—just in time—can be forgiven.
