My family spins around my father, who raised me, cared for me, and stood firmly beside me through every storm. After I arrived in the world, my mother quietly vanished, and my father chose not to remarry, perhaps fearing the ache of another heartbreak. Life hasnt always been gentle with him. I wished I could rush through childhood, growing up quickly to shoulder some of his burdens and support him like a proper English daughter ought.
Because our finances flickered like candlelight during a storm, I started working at fifteen. I penned quirky stories for the local London papers, and after three years, landed a better position. A few more years swept by and I found myself in a neat office job, allowing me to stand on my own two feet and care for both myself and my father.
One afternoon, my father summoned mehe said it was urgent, his voice thicker than usual. My chest fluttered with unease as I wandered down the hallway to the living room, where a woman awaited, perched nervously on the old floral sofa. According to my father, she was my mother.
When she caught sight of me, her tears spilled over, in earnest, pleading for forgiveness and stretching her arms for an embrace. I couldnt bring myself to fall into her arms. Gently, I untangled myself and walked out into the corridor, saying nothing, leaving both parents alone with the silence that trailed behind me. I decided to let my father handle things however he thought best. I find myself unable to forgive someone who left us so carelesslyand never bothered to wish me happy birthday after all those yearswhile the city of dreams spins on, indifferent and strange.
