**Diary Entry**
Mum adored the actress Alice Winters, so she named me after her. Dad left us when I was eight. Life got harder, but at least the daily shouting stopped. I was old enough to understand why they fought. Mum screamed that Dad couldn’t resist flirting with every woman he met. What I never understood was why those women—young, pretty—bothered with a married man who had a daughter.
*”Enough! I’d rather be with mates than listen to your nonsense,”* Dad would yell before slamming the door.
I was relieved when he was gone. No tears, no shouting. Besides, he barely noticed me—always at work, home after bedtime, off with friends on weekends. Once, their fight was worse than usual. Shattered dishes, screaming.
*”You don’t care about us—about her! You’re walking out on both of us!”*
*”Fine, I’ll take her then,”* Dad shot back.
*”Oh, and your new wife won’t mind? She’s already got a son she can’t control—a proper little thug!”*
I pressed my hands over my ears, terrified, until silence fell. Mum came in later, eyes swollen, hugging me tight.
*”Scared? Don’t be.”*
*”Where’s Dad? Did he leave us? For that other woman?”*
*”You heard? Sorry, love. We’ll manage. Fancy a biscuit with your tea?”*
She left to clean the kitchen. I crept out later and saw her sweeping broken china, crying. I slipped back unnoticed.
That summer, Mum sent me to Dad’s mum, Nan. She was kind, always scolding her son for abandoning us. I missed Mum, but Nan said she needed time to find me a *proper* father.
*”I just want Mum,”* I insisted.
Mum fetched me before school started. We hugged for ages. Nan shooed me off to pack, and I caught snippets of their talk.
*”When will you tell her?”* Nan asked.
*”I will. Thanks for having her,”* Mum deflected.
*”Mum! Don’t leave me here!”* I burst in, panicked. But Mum took me home.
Soon after, she brought home a man—Uncle Geoff—with a box of chocolates for me. He’d be living with us now. At school, some girls had stepdads. *”Better than real dads!”* one bragged. Another scowled; hers was strict, never bought her anything. I feared Geoff would be like that. But he brought me sweets, and Mum smiled more. I still kept my distance.
Life hardly changed—just no more fights, and fewer bedtime stories. *”You’re big now. Read to yourself,”* Mum would say, turning off the light. I’d lie awake, listening to their murmurs downstairs.
Then Mum asked if I wanted a brother or sister.
*”Neither.”*
Six months later, screaming baby Sophie arrived. Mum doted on her. I seethed.
*”She loves you, but Sophie’s little—needs more help,”* Geoff said. I watched Sophie squirm in her cot, thinking, *She’s not mine. Only Mum is.*
But as Sophie grew, Mum asked me to play with her. Slowly, I warmed to the role—bossing her around, feeling grown-up.
Then Geoff died suddenly. A blood clot, the doctor said. Mum shut down. Until one day at the park: Sophie shoved a boy off the slide. He pushed back, and she fell, bleeding. I sprinted home with her. Mum snapped awake, fretting over the cut—until Sophie wailed, *”Alice pushed me!”* Mum rounded on me, screaming. I locked myself in my room, choking on tears.
After that, Mum barely saw me. She loved Geoff; Sophie was all she had left. My own dad? Gone. His betrayal became mine too.
I moved out the second I could, marrying Rob. We had twins, a mortgage. I’d visit Mum with toys for Sophie, but she’d prattle about *her*, never me.
Once, she called, distraught: Sophie was skipping school, out all hours. *”She’ll fail her A-levels!”*
Sophie barely scraped into teacher training—not the med school Mum dreamed of.
*”Teaching’s respectable,”* I offered.
*”Her? Smoking, partying! If Geoff were alive—”*
*”If Dad hadn’t left, there’d *be* no Sophie! You’d have loved *me*!”*
She called me a selfish cow and hung up.
Then Mum got cancer. I nursed her while Sophie vanished. *”She’s got *practice*,”* Mum excused. *”Boys’ll pass her by!”*
*”They won’t! She could wait for me—what if you fell?”*
I begged Sophie to visit. *”Maybe later.”* Her phone stayed off.
Mum died. At the funeral, Sophie showed up—dry-eyed. Later, I found the will: the house was mine. Sophie stormed in with her boyfriend, griping about the smell. *”Selling this dump in six months,”* she declared.
*”No. It’s mine.”* I showed her the papers.
*”Liar! You bullied her!”*
*”Where were *you*? She asked for you every day!”*
She threatened court but backed down. Sobbed about rented flats, regrets. Rob warned, *”Don’t give in. Think of our boys.”*
We sold it, split the money. Still, she whined. *”Can’t even buy a studio! Help me, *sis*.”*
*”Get your bloke to work harder.”*
I’d thought *they* were the strangers. Turned out, it was me. We never spoke again.
Parents divorce and never think of the kids. The hurt, the jealousy. Half that house was the price of Mum’s love—or lack of it.
