Emily never truly disliked her stepfather, but she couldn’t accept him. What kind of father was he? She had never known a father, and this “Uncle Thomas who ate a whale” certainly wasn’t one. Still, for her mother’s sake, she buried her discontent from the first days they met. At eleven, she understood her mother longed for a family, for someone to care for her. Thomas wasn’t bad—just too quiet, like a statue carved from stone. He barely noticed Emily, yet unlike Amelia’s drunkard dad, at least he didn’t chase after whiskey.
Thomas acted as if Emily’s existence were a mere footnote, a shadow to his plans. He envisioned Sarah bearing him a son, perhaps two. They married swiftly, exchanging two cramped flats for a sprawling home in Bristol, where Emily got her own room and a fragile truce with the man who had become her stepfather. After school, she’d retreat into her sanctuary, avoiding the low-key stillness of the man who shared their meals but never truly lived in the same world.
When Sarah’s mornings were riddled with nausea and her head spun like a storm, the household burst into joy—she was pregnant! Emily dreamed of a brother, Thomas of a son. But instead of life, Sarah’s brain hosted a violent intruder, a sickness that ripened like a rotting fruit. Emily became an orphan at eleven, her path leading to a children’s home.
She hadn’t yet processed the grief when she overheard Amelia’s mother—a tipsy, defensive voice in the kitchen—confessing why she’d refused to take Emily in. “Not because Sarah’s family is unworthy,” she wept, “but this house leaks like a sieve, and Zinnia and I vanish every weekend. I can’t carry two souls.”
Emily hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the words clung to her like cobwebs. Social workers had arrived, demanding removal, but Thomas had begged for days to find Sarah’s relatives. Now, faced with a reality of foster walls, he waited to speak.
Morning came. Thomas, usually a man of few syllables, fumbled for words. “Emily, we need to—”
“I know,” she interrupted, tears prickling. “The children’s home.”
“No. Something else. I want to adopt you. They say it’s possible if you agree.” His voice cracked. “I’m no good at being a father. But I can’t—*won’t*—send you away.”
Emily had never seen Thomas weep, not even at the funeral when he stood like a marble statue. Now, his shoulders trembled, and she held him, soothed the child he’d become in that moment.
They made it work. For the first six months, they nursed each other—Thomas learning to cook beyond beans, Emily learning to speak. He became her quiet shield, defending her from bullies, slipping ice cream into her backpack, surprising her with movie tickets for Zinnia. Sarah’s sister stayed the nights, a flurry of advice and warmth, until time mended the fractures.
Yet Emily never called him “Dad.” She knew he saw her as a foreign thread woven into his fabric, stitched there by fate’s clumsy hands.
At fourteen, Thomas brought up another storm: a new love—Liza—and a child. He feared the social workers, the cramped council flat she rented. “Can we make it work?” he asked.
Liza arrived like a queen of the poultry yard, her first pregnancy blooming like a peacock’s tail. Thomas brightened. Emily smoothed tensions, though she sensed Liza’s disdain in the way her smile fell when Thomas left the room. The new “mistress” made her presence clear—Emily was an *accident*, a blight on the edges of their life.
Emily retreated further, becoming a ghost in her own home. Thomas remained unaware until Stasik—Liza and his son—was born. Then, the cracks deepened. Liza’s whispers filled the air: Emily’s room should be sold. The state could manage her. “You’re just a stranger,” she sneered.
One Saturday, Thomas dragged Emily to Sarah’s grave. They painted the fence, planted ivy. He held her hand. “Bear it, love. Stasik will start school. Liza’ll work. She won’t have time for nonsense.”
But Liza struck again. She barred Zinnia, hoarded finances, and left Emily beg for pocket money. Emily kept silent, loving how the light returned to Thomas’s eyes when he held Stasik.
The breaking point was a school call. Thomas learned Emily had skipped meals. She trained in the archery club, clenched hunger until her stomach screamed. Her savings account—locked in Liza’s card—was a mirage.
He cursed himself. “Forgive me, love. You should’ve spoken. You’ll have your own card. I’ll transfer funds monthly. You’ll be free.”
Emily didn’t hear the words, only *love*. Had he ever called her that before?
Liza raged. She demanded shared accounts, howled about money “draining.” “What’s she need—*clothes*?” she’d hiss.
Years passed in battles. Emily ached, knowing her presence poisoned the household. Zinnia had fled to marry a stranger, while Emily dreamed of university halls. Thomas, though, bit back loans, but Liza clawed at his resolve.
Then, a miracle. Thomas inherited a cottage in the countryside, a place of wildflowers and secrets. There was a college in the village, no fees, a dormitory that looked like a dollhouse.
He gifted the house to Emily, the savings unlocked. “It’s yours,” he said, his voice cracking. “Live there.”
Liza screamed. The cottage vanished from her plans like a puff of smoke. Thomas packed his dignity and left, a week of peace in a nameless train station, a thief of time.
Neighbors in the village—older women with lace doilies—called Emily “lucky.” She nodded, “Dad’s the best.”
On her wedding day, Thomas arrived late. His vintage car had stalled, its engine sputtering between counties. The guests fretted, but he stumbled in, breathless, and swept her into a waltz under a string of fairy lights.
He never took the lead, but in that moment, in that dream, he led her through the stars.
