**The Flawed Father**
For as long as I can remember, Mum and I were stuck in the same tired routine. Every morning, she’d leave for work—sweeping the streets in our neighbourhood in Sheffield. By midday, she’d return clutching a bottle of cheap vodka. By eight in the evening, she’d already be asleep—exhausted, drunk, snoring behind her closed bedroom door.
At least we had separate rooms. It meant I could do my homework in peace.
Some days, Mum didn’t drink. On those days, we’d clean the flat, bake pies, laugh together. I adored those moments. I used to think if I was good enough—if I tried hard enough—she’d want more days like that. But then morning came, and it was all the same again—vodka, silence, hollow eyes.
When I was three, everything was different. Mum worked at a corner shop, Dad was a coach driver. I remember one summer day—the three of us walking through the park, the asphalt sticky with heat, Dad buying us ice creams. His scoop fell, and a big shaggy dog lapped it up before he could grab it. We laughed until we cried. Mum even shared her cone with him.
Then, everything fell apart. A stranger came to our door with news: Dad had died in a crash. The coach’s brakes failed, and he’d steered it into the ditch, taking the impact himself to save the passengers.
After that, Mum broke. Started drinking. Lost her job. Ended up as a street cleaner. Life became about survival.
When I turned fourteen, Uncle Dave showed up. Handsome, sober. I didn’t get what he saw in Mum—though she wasn’t a complete wreck yet, still slim, her face not entirely ruined by drink. Turns out, he just didn’t have anywhere else to live.
But his presence worked like magic on her—she almost stopped drinking, started cooking again, smiling. He wasn’t exactly caring, but at least he didn’t hit us. Small mercies.
Six months later, Mum told me she was pregnant. For some reason, she put the choice—keep it or not—on me. I remember being thrilled. Hoping a baby might finally bring her back to life. I dreamed of pushing a pram, having a little sister. I just knew it’d be a girl.
Mum listened with shining eyes. Uncle Dave even pretended to be happy. Said he’d “always wanted a kid.”
Then, after a couple of weeks, he changed. Went quiet, sullen. Left less money for food, came home late. Mum was too lost in her own world to notice. I was terrified.
The night Mum went into labour, Uncle Dave called the hospital after two hours.
“Hello, has Mrs. Wilson given birth yet? A boy? Right. What’d you say?” His voice cut out, his face twisted. He hung up, sat in silence.
“What’s wrong with Mum?” I grabbed his sleeve. “Tell me!”
He looked at me with a cold sort of indifference. “Rita’s had a freak. A defective boy. Not mine. I’ve got a proper woman now—not some broke drunk, someone with a house, money. No broken kids. Tell your mum not to expect anything from me.”
He stood, started packing calmly. I just watched, stunned, as everything collapsed.
“You—you absolute *scumbag*!” I choked out. “He’s *your* child! What are we supposed to do?! You can’t just leave!”
He smirked, eyed me in a way that made my skin crawl. “You’re pretty when you’re angry. Shame you’re jailbait.”
I stumbled back, slammed my bedroom door, shaking. An hour later, the front door shut. He was gone.
That was the darkest night of my life. I sobbed into my pillow, dreading Mum finding out. I blamed myself—I’d talked her into keeping the baby.
Years passed. Nine long years. I grew up, got married. My two-year-old, Lily, played in the living room. And Marcie—that same baby sister—had grown into a bright, clever little girl. We lived happy, loved.
Then, one Sunday morning, the doorbell rang. Lily and Marcie raced to answer it before I could shout, “Ask who it is!”
On the doorstep stood a rough, hunched man in a sagging jacket.
“Rita in?” he rasped.
I squinted—barely recognised him. Uncle Dave. Only now, he was old, worn down, useless.
“I was thinkin’… that’s my son. I… thought I should come back. I’m his dad, ain’t I? Where’s Rita? She back on the drink?”
I stared at him, ice-cold.
“Rita doesn’t live here. And you don’t have a son. The hospital mixed you up—they told you about someone else. Mum had a girl. Healthy. Beautiful. This is Marcie.” I glanced at her. “Well, Marcie, want a ‘dad’ like this?”
Marcie shuddered like she’d felt a chill. Then, calmly, she said, “I’ve already got a dad. Dad Joe. The kindest, most *real* one there is.”
She took Lily’s hand and walked off.
“Hear that?” I said softly. “Thought running away would break us? It did the opposite. Mum didn’t go back to the bottle. She took care of Marcie, got better. Met Joe—a *good* man. They live nearby. And yeah, he’s a *real* father to us.”
“Katie, who’s there?” Joe called from the bathroom.
“No one, love. Just… no one,” I shouted back.
As I shoved that man out the door, something lifted. A weight I hadn’t realised I’d been carrying—gone. For nine years, I’d *waited* for him to show up. Now? The story’s over. No more shadows in our home.
