The air in the house was thick with tension.
“I hate him! He’s not my father! He should just leave. We’ll manage without him,” Lily spat, her fury darkening her usually bright eyes. I couldn’t understand the family rift. Why not just live peacefully? I had no idea of the storm raging beneath the surface.
…Lily had a younger half-sister, Emma—the shared daughter of her mum and stepdad. To me, he treated Emma and Lily the same. But that was from the outside. In truth, Lily never hurried home after school. She’d time it so her worst enemy—that loathsome stepfather—would already be at work. But if she miscalculated and he was still home, she’d unravel.
She’d whisper to me, “He’s here! Victoria, stay in my room.” Then she’d lock herself in the bathroom, waiting for him to leave. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, she’d emerge, exhaling in relief.
“Finally! You’re lucky, Victoria—you’ve got your real dad. I’m stuck with this.” She sighed heavily. “Come on, let’s eat.”
Lily’s mum was a meticulous homemaker. Meals were sacred—breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner—all timed, measured, balanced. Whenever I visited, warm food waited under tea towels on the stove.
Lily used to despise Emma, ten years her junior. She bullied her, teased her, even fought her. Years later, they’d become inseparable.
Lily would marry, have a daughter. Eventually, the whole family—except her stepfather—would move to Australia.
…Twelve years later, she’d have another girl. Emma would never marry but would help raise Lily’s daughters. In that distant land, their bond would grow stronger. Lily would write to her real father until his death. He had another wife; she was his only child.
Growing up with both parents, I never grasped the pain my friends endured. Their stepfathers made their lives unbearable.
Sophie’s parents were hopeless alcoholics. She never invited anyone over, ashamed of their slurred words and swinging fists. But at fifteen, she learned to fight back—and they backed off.
“Victoria, come to my birthday,” Sophie announced one day, bright-eyed.
“Your house? I’m scared, Sophie. What if your stepdad—”
“Let him try. Mum gave me my real dad’s address. He’s my safety now. Come. Mum’s cooking.”
The day arrived. I knocked, gift in hand. Sophie greeted me, radiant in her best dress.
“Welcome! Sit, eat.”
Her parents stood stiffly by the table. I murmured a greeting; they nodded.
A worn plastic tablecloth covered the rickety table. A bowl of stew, sliced bread, fizzy lemonade in chipped glasses. Crumbling pastries perched on the rims. Sophie beamed—this was her feast.
God, what did they eat normally? My own birthday feasts overflowed with roasts, cakes, pies.
I ate politely, pushing the crumbling pastry aside.
Her parents never moved. On a cot in the corner, Sophie’s grandmother wheezed, “Susan, don’t drink! You’ll forget me.”
Sophie flushed. “Just lemonade, Gran.”
The old woman turned to the wall with a sigh.
“Thank you for the meal,” I said quickly.
We fled—youth had better things to do than linger with the old.
Sophie would lose her mum, stepdad, and gran in a year. Alone at twenty-five, she’d never marry. Suitors came and went—including my ex-husband. She’d take him in briefly, but nothing would last. Some people just can’t fit together.
…Then there was Tessa. Fourteen, living with her stern older sister, Anna. Their mum visited weekly, bringing groceries, cooking meals. She’d left her second husband—Tessa’s dad—and returned to her first.
I envied Tessa’s freedom. No rules, no curfews. She’d marry young, have a daughter. Then her husband would vanish into prison. By forty-two, drink would claim her. Anna would find her body.
…Finally, Nicole—the new girl in Year 10. Gorgeous, sharp-witted, with a voice like honey. Every boy stared. But she only had eyes for Connor, who’d pick her up after school in his car.
Her dad had died when she was nine. She failed classes but sang like an angel. She and Connor formed a band, performed at school dances.
When he left for the army, Nicole wept at the station—but didn’t wait. She had a son, father unknown, and lived with her mum.
Connor returned, forgave her, asked her to join him. She refused. “You’ll throw the boy in my face forever. I’d rather be alone.”
…Years later, her son grown, she’d marry a farmer and move to the countryside.
All these friends—utterly separate, hating each other.
Now, I only write to Lily, so far yet so close.
“I’ll keep my family together,” she says. “My girls won’t suffer like I did. Better to fight with a real father than a stranger. Blood ties endure. My stepfather—that pain never fades.”
Sometimes, we laugh over old school mischief.
Sophie and Nicole? Lost to time.
