Dear Diary,
I can still hear my mothers voice, edged with a hiss, Do you even understand what youre doing? She snapped, You brought her sweets. Once every six months. How thoughtful, Mr. Perfect! Is that all you can manage? A piece of candy and then youre off, neglecting every parental duty? Do you even know how we survive? Have you ever asked? Brought any money? No! You just pop in now and then so I dont forget youre Dad. A good, kind father comes bearing sweets for a child who spends days alone because I cant leave the shop.
Ive never seen Mum argue with him in front of Eleanor, and even now I try to keep my daughter from hearing the spat, but the walls are thin
Our flat is twelve square metres. In the corner sits a battered desk, littered with pencils, a crooked paper cutout, and a stack of textbooks opened at random pages. This is where Eleanor, who shares the room with a pile of toys, spends most of her evenings alone. Shes seven now, already accustomed to solitude, especially after school. At school she has friends, a seatmate, a whole network. At home, its just her.
Shes bent over a maths workbook, numbers swimming before her eyes. Shes exhausted, cannot see the solution, but she knows she must finishshe cant hand in a blank sheet, and theres no one to help. I have no idea when Mum will be back or whether shell have any time.
Everything is her own: the school run, the walk past the old swing set that creaks in the wind, reheating yesterdays soup on the stove, and now the maths.
Five plus three eight, she whispers, writing the answer carefully. In her mind, Mums voice seems to echo: Youre growing up, Ellie. Pull yourself together.
She does. Mum, Anne, works from dawn till late, always at the shop. A mother who strives, who loves, yet can rarely just be a mother.
Suddenly, through the thin plaster walls, Eleanor hears voices in the stairwella dispute, perhaps. She freezes, pencil hovering. Someone approaches the front door. Mum and someone else.
With her usual caution, Eleanor edges to her bedroom door, cracks it open just enough to peer into the dim hallway.
Someone steps in.
The scene is both familiar and strange. Anne stands by the flats entrance, her morningstyled bangs pushed to the side. Beside her stands Victor, the father who hasnt lived with us for years. His glossy car sometimes appears in the courtyard, sparking a mix of nervousness and expectation in Mum. In the six months since he vanished, Eleanor has almost forgotten she even has a dad.
Victor clutches a bright red parcel, stark against the grey concrete of the stairwell.
Anne hangs her coat, Victor shuts the door behind him.
Eleanor! Mum calls, her tone soft at first, then sharper as she glances at her exhusband. We have a guest.
Eleanor steps out, eyes fixed on the red parcel. Victor, seeing his daughter, flashes a grin and coos, Hello, princess! He hands her the parcel. Here, goodies. I saved up just for you.
She takes the parcel gingerly. Its heavy. Through the translucent wrap she can see shiny wrapperscandy! At home, sweets are a rarity, reserved for special occasions like Grandmas visit or a school fete. Yet here lies an entire bag. Forgetting everything else, she tears open a piece, her favourite Teddy Bear sweet.
Thanks, Dad! she says, mouth full, already reaching for another.
Anne watches, her expression a mask Eleanor has learned to read. It isnt approval, joy, or even a simple acceptance of his presence. Its something more complicated.
Victor, lets go to the lounge, Anne says, taking him by the arm and ignoring Eleanor, who continues devouring sweets without chewing.
Feeling invisible, Eleanor retreats to her room, but she hears everything.
Mums voice returns, sharp as ever. Do you even understand what youre doing? You bring sweets every six months. How considerate! Is that all you can manage? A candy and then you disappear, ignoring real responsibilities? Do you ever ask how we get by? Bring any money? No! You just hover here now and then so I dont forget youre Dad.
Such a confrontation has never happened in front of Eleanor. Even now, Anne tries to shield her daughter, but the walls betray.
Victor attempts an apology, his words garbled, indecipherable through the plaster. Eleanors voice cuts in, Im still paying off your credit! Your failed business! You remember whose name was on that loan? Mine! And you wander off, free as a bird. Will you ever settle your debts?
A rustle sounds.
I pay what I can, Victors voice drops, Money doesnt grow on trees. Id give you gold if I could.
Giving sweets is help? Anne shouts. If you truly have no money, sell the car. Close the loan.
Victor protests, How can I sell the car if I cant survive without it? This is all I earn.
Anne retorts, If you cant help with cash, at least spend time with the child.
Victor sighs, Id love to, but I have no time. Thats life.
Eleanor leans against the wall, gooseflesh crawling up her arms. Shes only seven, yet she understands. She knows her father left, that debt is a monster, that the business he bragged about is now a burdenall because of him. The sweets in her hand taste bland now. The world isnt fair, but where is fairness?
—
Years later.
The red parcel is now pink, its bitter aftertaste still lingers.
Eleanor is no longer a child. Shes thirty, a mother herself, with a threeyearold daughter, Molly, who probably scampers around the flat, playing with her friend.
A familiar knock echoes at the door. Victor, once again, stands there, this time without a fight in the stairwell. Mother Anne has long since stopped paying Victors loans. She has supported Eleanor on her own all these years. Victor, after cashing in his share of the old family house (when Anne finally sold it to move to a modest flat), now appears every six monthsnothing but a polite formality now.
Hello, princess, Victor says, offering a bright pink parcel. A little something for my granddaughter.
Eleanor forces a smile. Hello, Dad. Come in. She keeps the conversation neutral, as always.
Molly, hearing a strange voice, peeks out of the playroom. Spotting the pink parcel, she asks, Whos that?
Its Granddad, love. Remember when he gave you that Barbie last year? Eleanor replies.
Victor hands the parcel to Molly. Inside are not sweets but cheap plastic figurines, the kind you find in a promotional giveaway. Eleanor thinks, Just junk.
You havent changed a bit, she says dryly.
Victor grins, Why should I? Im fine as I am.
She knows he never truly helped: no money for tutors, no support when she worked night shifts to buy a coat. His help was always a token gift.
Victor settles into an old armchair, You know, I have a son now.
Eleanor flinches. A sonGrahamborn to Victors second wife in 2002. Shes never met him, only seen photographs.
Congrats, she answers briefly. Want me to take a loan for his wedding?
Even Victor looks startled. I was hoping to invite you
I wont come, she says.
Come at least an hour, he pleads. Family, you know.
She thinks of all the things shed like to scream, to smash him with a kitchen knife, but she restrains herself. Why? Why has she never confronted him directly? Graham, the supposed brother, has everything, a life of privilege. And she? Shes had to grind for a mortgage on her modest flat, while her mother paid off Victors debts for years.
Fine, she says, Ill be there.
—
The wedding is a lavish affair Eleanor could never afford. She sits at a distant table meant for acquaintances and distant relatives. She watches Graham, his bride Marina in an expensive white dress, and Victor trying all night to be the charming guest.
When its time for speeches, Victor stands, not with a parcel but a document. Dear Graham and Marina, on this day I wish you a happy life together. May you keep each other safe, remember your parents, and build your happiness I have a little something for you.
He hands Graham a set of keys. The keys to a flat.
Eleanor feels a cold surge of hatred shes never known. The flat that should have been hers, for her hardearned mortgage, now handed to her brother, who has never needed to work.
This is justice, she whispers to herself, her eyes burning as she leaves, a poisonous thought forming: May this be your last happy day.
—
A month later, rumors swirl through the family network, as they always do. Graham gets into a scuffle in an alley, is robbed, beaten, his head bashed against the pavement. He survives but cant walk or speak.
Victor has to hire a carer. Marina, pregnant, cant lift heavy things, and later loses the baby at five months. Victor is torn between his bedridden son and his grieving fiancée. He finds solace only in a glass of whisky.
One night Victor, barely standing, comes to Eleanors flat, wanting to pour out his soul. She listens, nodding, but inside she feels only a twisted satisfaction. Enjoy your happy life, old man, she thinks.
She never inquires about his later life. She returns the debtif that even counts as a debt.
Time passes. Eleanor visits the grave of her paternal grandmother, the woman who always treated her better than her own father ever did. Beside the tomb lies a fresh graveGrahams. Hes suffered, she notes, feeling no grief, no anger, only emptiness.
She knows there is no longer a mysterious brother.
Victor shows up again, this time asking for a thousand pounds, promising to repay soon. When?
Whenever you can, she says.
Then you dont have to repay, Victor sighs, humbled.
She agrees without protest, oddly relieved to see him so low. She never meets him again. Relatives tell her Victor sold both his flats, invested in some cult, his wife left for her homeland. Eleanor, meanwhile, has a whitestriped future: she and her husband finally cleared their mortgage, even bought a second flat to rent out. She lives. Occasionally, when she ponders the past, her father, his family, the cascade of misfortunes, a thought flickers: could it all have been my own wish that set these tragedies in motion?
