Right to Blunder
That Father had a mistress, I discovered by chance that day – having skipped school to accompany my friend to a tattoo parlour. Since attending the shopping centre in uniform wouldn’t do, I dashed home to change. As I tugged on my jeans, the key turned in the lock. I froze mid-motion, wobbling on one leg while the other remained caught in the denim. My first thought was burglars, but then I recognised Father’s voice; he seemed to be speaking to someone.
“I’ll just grab the kit and leave immediately. Can’t very well claim rugby practice if my gear’s under the bed.”
I’d misjudged. It wasn’t a call; Father was recording a voice note. Moments later, a woman’s voice, breathy and familiar, echoed:
“Darling, I’ve missed you dreadfully, hurry! I’ve baked your favourite scones, they’ll be cold. Kisses!”
Understanding dawned slowly. First came recognition – Aunt Eleanor, Father’s colleague and sister to Mother’s friend, often a guest in our home. I’d always liked her. Aunt Eleanor wasn’t like other adults; she didn’t pretend to know how one ought to live, adored fun, and listened to modern music, not the dreary tunes my parents favoured. Then, considering *why* she was sending Father voice notes, the meaning pierced through.
The key turned again. Silence fell. I sank onto my bed, replaying Aunt Eleanor’s words – no mistake, Father was entangled with another woman. What now? Should Mother know? How face Father, or her?
Unsure, I raced to meet my friend – already five texts deep. We’d anticipated this for weeks, choosing designs while she perfected forging her mother’s signature. My mood had vanished.
“Liv, what’s got into you?” she prodded. “Why the long face? Fancy ink too? I’ll forge your mum’s signature, easy!”
How I yearned to share this shocking burden, but confiding felt impossible. So I pretended the tattoo was the issue.
For weeks after, studies suffered, friends were avoided, Mother dodged, Father met with rudeness. What next? Once, I nearly told Mother, but she scolded me over a chemistry exam failure, sparking a fierce row. That evening, she entered my room bearing a chocolate éclair – my weakness.
“Sorry, poppet, for shouting. Unpedagogical, I know. I just worry so over your exams! I want everything perfect for you…”
“Mum, not this again – I’ll pass those exams! Is that éclair… mine?”
“Of course. Friends?” She loathed discord.
Taking the éclair, I pecked her cheek, vowing silently – I’d never wound her so. If a silly row distressed her, imagine Father’s betrayal? She must never know.
Involuntarily, I became Father’s accomplice: covering his late ‘work’, reminding him of family events and Mother’s requests, distracting her during his calls. Meanwhile, I ignored his requests, snapped at him, barely restraining my contempt.
Then, matters settled. Father returned punctually, I passed my exams, moved into sixth form, and the nightmare faded. I met William – two years older, a first-year law student, guitarist. Evenings spent with friends increasingly ended in just us two walks. One such night, by the park fountain, time flew. Hoping my lateness unnoticed, I crept home on tiptoe.
*Phew, made it,* I thought.
“Olivia?”
Not made it…
Mother peered in. “You’re rather late.”
I braced for a scolding, but she seemed distracted.
“Sorry, lost track with friends. Mum, are you alright?”
Even in the lamplight, her eyes looked red-rimmed.
“Fine. Tell me… did you or Father buy anything from Bijoux Jewellers? Just a thought…”
Instinct warned caution. “Bijoux?”
“I… found a receipt for earrings…”
“Oh! Right – sorry, forgot to mention. Borrowed money from Dad for Matilda’s birthday gift? She pierced her ears, wanted something special… Too much?”
Mother’s face transformed. “Nonsense! Forget I asked. You’re so thoughtful about dates, just like your father!”
Lying churned my stomach. Next day, resolve hardened: end this! Confronting Father terrified me. But facing Aunt Eleanor… that I could manage. *Improvise,* I decided.
They worked at the *Chronicle* – Father a reporter, Aunt Eleanor the editor. Years prior, he’d often brought me along; access was easy.
Timing was key – catching her alone. Soon, Father mentioned interviewing a factory director over breakfast. Seizing the chance, I skipped first period, recruited Matilda for cover, boarded the bus, and arrived within thirty minutes.
Reception waved me through. Confidently, I ascended to the second floor, knuckles rapping the ‘Editor-in-Chief’ door.
“Yes, come,” called Aunt Eleanor’s voice. I pushed open the door.
“Olivia?” Surprise flickered in her eyes. “Is Father here? He’s…”
Battling trembling knees, I crossed to the chair facing her desk. The fire I rehearsed died on my lips. Stiffly, I uttered:
“Those earrings… Father bought them for you, didn’t he?”
Tiny, sparkling crystal hoops gleamed in her ears.
“What?”
Had I not overheard that voice note, her genuine confusion might have fooled me.
“I know everything,” I stated flatly. “Mother found the jeweller’s receipt. Aren’t you ashamed?”
Something unreadable, perhaps anger, crossed her face.
“You mean Father bought jewellery?”
“Earrings.” Mother had specified. “Stop pretending.”
Aunt Eleanor fell silent, then said, “Go home, dear. This isn’t for you.”
Her tone unnerved me. Riding home, dread struck: she’d tell Father! How hide the fallout from Mother?
That evening, feigning a headache, I retired early. Father arrived late, presumably explaining. He spoke little the next morning, seeming distracted and curt with Mother.
A week later, he packed a case. He moved in with Chloe, the intern. The earrings were for *her*. Aunt Eleanor had sacked her rival. I pieced it together later, eavesdropping as Mother’s friend consoled her:
“…don’t blame Eleanor! Saintly woman! She fired that floozy instantly upon learning of his carryings-on. Who’d guess *that* would make him run off to her? Felt guilty, apparently! Don’t fret – he’ll regret losing you.”
“Oh no, *I’m* to blame! I neglected him lately… even spied – idiotic. Eleanor’s faultless!”
Only I knew *my* fault. If only I could undo it!
Life became a nightmare. Mother wept constantly, sealed in her room. School marks plummeted. I even rowed with Matilda.
William and I fared no better. Officially a couple, we bickered endlessly – him caught up in band rehearsals or weekend courier work, leaving little time. After missing a film premiere due to his rehearsal, we watched only half. Enraged, I staged a spectacular row outside the cinema, then screened his calls.
Now, waiting the usual hour after Mother left for her shift, I slunk home. Expulsion? Repeating the year? Parental wrath? Liars all – why couldn’t I?
The key turned. For an instant, I was back in that cursed
Over the years, that defiant tattoo faded into a pale script on Emily’s skin, serving as a quiet reminder that while youthful wounds cut deep, time and perspective could soften even the sharpest edges of betrayal.
The Freedom to Fail
