Okay, here you go…
Right to be Wrong.
Poppy found out about her dad’s affair completely by accident. She’d skipped school that day to go with her best mate to get a tattoo. Wearing her school uniform to the shopping centre felt rubbish, so she popped home to change. Just as she was pulling on some jeans, the key turned in the front door. She froze, wobbling on one leg with the other stuck halfway down the denim, convinced it was burglars. Then she heard her dad’s voice – seemed he was on the phone.
“Just grabbing my gym kit and heading out,” he was saying. “Can’t exactly say I’ve been at the gym if the bag’s under the bed, can I?”
Poppy was wrong – he wasn’t on a call, he was recording a voice note, because a minute later she heard a woman’s voice reply:
“Darling, I’ve missed you so much! Hurry up, I can’t wait! By the way, I baked your favourite scones, so shift yourself before they go cold! Kisses!”
The meaning hit her later. First, she recognised the voice: it was Auntie Sophie, her dad’s colleague and also her mum’s best friend’s sister. Sophie often visited. Poppy loved her; Auntie Sophie wasn’t like other boring grown-ups who pretended they knew everything. She was fun, liked a laugh, listened to cool music, not the dreary stuff Poppy’s parents liked. Only when she wondered *why* Auntie Sophie was sending voice notes did the full horror sink in.
Another key turn, then silence. Poppy slumped onto her bed, replaying Sophie’s words. No mistake. Her dad was seeing someone else. What now? Tell her mum? How could she face her dad, or Sophie?
Still torn, she raced off to meet her mate – already five messages deep. They’d spent ages planning this tattoo, and her friend Sophie had perfected forging her mum’s signature. Now Poppy couldn’t care less.
“Poppy, what is it?” her friend pressed as they walked. “Why the face? You want ink now too? Easy-peasy, I’ll forge the form!”
God, she wanted to share this massive, awful secret, share the burden. But she couldn’t. So Poppy pretended she *was* just gutted about the tattoo.
For weeks after, she couldn’t focus in class, avoided friends, snapped at her dad, dodged her mum. She had no clue what to do. Once, she nearly told her mum, but her mum started yelling about the chemistry test Poppy had failed, and they had a massive row instead. That evening her mum came into her room with a chocolate éclair – Poppy’s absolute favourite.
“Sorry, love, for shouting,” she said. “I know it’s not helpful. I just panic about your GCSEs! I want everything to be perfect for you.”
“Mum, seriously, lay off the GCSEs! I’ll be fine,” Poppy muttered. “Is that éclair for me?”
“‘Course it is. Friends again? Hate it when we row.”
Poppy took the éclair, pecked her mum’s cheek, and silently swore: she’d *never* hurt her mum like that. If her mum got this upset over a silly argument, imagine what finding out about Dad would do? Poppy had to make sure her mum never knew.
So, unwillingly, Poppy became her dad’s partner in crime: covering for him if he worked late, reminding him about family birthdays or Mum’s requests, distracting her mum if his phone buzzed. All while ignoring him, being rude, barely holding back what she really thought.
Then, weirdly, things settled. Dad started coming home on time, Poppy passed her Year 10 exams, and the whole nightmare faded like a bad dream. Plus, she met Jamie. He was two years older, doing law at uni, played guitar. They’d hang out with the group in the evenings, but more and often slipped off alone. One night, walking by the fountain, they lost track of time – she was well late. Hoping her parents wouldn’t notice the hour, she crept towards her room.
*Phew, got away with it*, she thought.
“Poppy?”
Spoke too soon. Her mum peered in. “Bit late, aren’t you?”
Bracing herself for a lecture, Poppy mumbled, “Sorry, lost track of time at the park with Sophie. Mum… you alright?” Even in the dim light, her mum’s eyes looked red and puffy.
“Fine. Love, did you or your dad buy anything from the jeweller’s? Just wondering…”
A gut feeling told Poppy to stall. “The jeweller’s?”
“Saw a receipt for earrings… thought maybe…”
“Oh! Right!” Poppy blurted, inspired. “Sorry, forgot to say! I asked Dad for £50 towards a birthday present for Sophie. She just got her ears pierced, so I thought… Was it too much? Sorry, Mum.”
Her mum’s face instantly cleared. “Don’t be silly! No, not at all! You’re such a thoughtful girl, remembering birthdays. Just like your dad!”
Lying tasted rotten. Next day, Poppy decided it stopped *now*. Talking to her dad filled her with dread. But confronting Auntie Sophie… she could manage that. She didn’t know what to say, but figured she’d wing it.
Dad and Sophie worked at the local paper – Dad was a reporter, Sophie the editor. Poppy used to go there loads when she was younger, so getting in was easy.
She needed a time when Dad was out. Two days later, perfect – Dad mentioned at breakfast he was interviewing a factory manager. Poppy didn’t hesitate. After first period, she bunked off, getting Sophie to cover for her, hopped a bus, and was there in half an hour.
Reception waved her through. Confidently, she walked upstairs and knocked on the door labelled “Editor”.
“Come in!” Sophie’s voice called.
Poppy pushed open the door.
“Poppy?” Sophie looked startled. “What are you doing here? Looking for Dad? He’s out interviewing…”
Trying to hide her shaking legs, Poppy walked to the chair opposite the desk and sat. On the bus, her planned speech seemed easy, but now she just blurted: “Dad bought you those earrings, didn’t he?”
Sparkling in Sophie’s ears were small, pretty hoop studs with clear crystals.
“What?”
If she hadn’t heard that voice note, Sophie’s genuine confusion might have fooled her.
“I know everything,” Poppy stated flatly. “And Mum found the jeweller’s receipt. Aren’t you ashamed?”
Something flitted across Sophie’s face – confusion, then annoyance.
“You think your dad bought something from a jeweller’s?”
Poppy remembered – earrings, definitely. “Earrings. Don’t pretend you don’t know.”
Sophie was silent for a long moment. Then: “Go home, love. This isn’t your fight.”
Something in Sophie’s tone unsettled Poppy, but there was nothing more to say. It was way messier
Liz traced her fresh tattoo as she walked, its sting nothing compared to the ache inside, knowing some wounds didn’t heal like skin but sank deeper, changing who you’d become.
