*How could he? Mum had only been gone a few months, and already he’d brought that woman into our home…*
Emily raced home from school, swinging her gym bag with careless joy. Her backpack thumped against her shoulders, but she barely noticed. Tonight, she and Dad were going to the theatre!
She burst into the hallway and knew instantly he wasn’t home—his coat was missing from the rack. Her spirits sank. Then it struck her: the play didn’t start for over two hours. *He’ll come. We’ll make it,* she reassured herself while peeling off her jacket.
She waited, eyes flicking to the clock. Time usually crawled, but today it raced forward, and still no sign of Dad. They’d be late. What if he’d forgotten? What if work kept him? She fidgeted, restless, until the lock finally turned. She sprang to the door.
“Finally!” Emily exhaled. “I’ve been waiting forever. We’ll miss it!” she scolded, voice thick with hurt.
Dad unhurriedly hung up his coat, smoothing his already immaculate dark grey suit. Emily admired him—always put together, clean-shaven, smelling of the same expensive cologne.
Her classmates grumbled about their parents—too strict, or worse, too fond of drink. Not her dad. He never shouted unless she’d earned it. She never asked for much, just his time—a trip to the museum, the theatre. Nothing made her happier.
She took after him—tall, sharp-featured, grey-eyed. She wished she’d inherited Mum’s blonde curls and dimples. But Dad was perfect to her, even if she’d never say it aloud. He called her his princess, his little doll. Didn’t that mean she must be pretty too?
“Aren’t we going?” she asked, crushed, as he lingered. There wasn’t time now.
“We’ll go. Just let me have a cuppa first, alright? Plenty of time.”
“Fine,” she muttered, stomping to the kitchen.
Dad slouched at the table, exhausted.
“Go on, get ready,” he said.
She dashed to her room, already knowing which dress to wear—a green one, Mum’s favourite. She twirled before the mirror.
“Ready?” Dad peeked in.
“Yep!”
The car smelled of leather and air freshener and something indefinably *him*. As they drove, London itself seemed to share her giddy excitement.
The theatre always stole her breath. Crystal chandeliers, endless mirrors, crimson carpets rolling up grand staircases. Climbing them, she might as well have been entering Buckingham Palace.
The lobby hummed with murmuring couples, footsteps muffled by plush carpet. The rustling voices thrilled her—like autumn leaves whispering secrets.
They wandered, studying portraits of actors past. She gasped at familiar faces, though she’d seen them a hundred times. The first bell rang.
“Come on!” She tugged Dad’s arm.
“Relax. It’s only the first bell,” he chuckled.
But Emily couldn’t wait—not for the velvet seats, not for the chandelier’s slow dimming. She craned her neck staring up at it until it ached.
“Smell that?” she sighed.
“Dust and greasepaint,” Dad wrinkled his nose.
“I love it,” she insisted.
The second bell. Then the third. The chandelier darkened. Silence fell. The golden curtain trembled, then swept aside. Emily held her breath…
At intermission, Dad vanished to the bar. Emily searched everywhere before spotting him on the balcony—with a woman. A *heavily* made-up woman in a cocktail dress. Their heads were bent close, almost touching.
Emily’s chest seized. *She’s why he left me alone.*
“Dad!” she called sharply.
He jerked away, turning.
“I couldn’t find you. The second act’s starting,” she said, too brightly.
No juice. No cakes. He’d never made it to the bar.
“Who was that?” she demanded as they returned.
“A colleague. Ran into her by chance.” His tone was rehearsed. *Liar,* she thought.
The third bell. The chandelier dimmed. For two blissful hours, she forgot the woman entirely.
They dissected the play all the way home. Dad thought the actors overdone; Emily swore they were brilliant. She’d nearly cried in one scene. Dad humoured her.
“How was it?” Mum asked weakly when they returned.
“Incredible! Why didn’t you come?”
Emily caught the glance between her parents. Mum looked pale, strained. But once Emily started recounting the play, she forgot everything else.
She’d remember that day forever. Their last trip together. Only later did she learn Mum had been at the hospital that afternoon—confirming the diagnosis.
Mum faded quickly after that. Smiles grew rare. Her eyes never lost their haunted look. Emily took over cooking, cleaning, under Mum’s tired guidance.
“Dad… Mum won’t die, will she?” she once whispered.
“Not if I can help it. Don’t think like that,” he said.
But she couldn’t stop.
Mum died eighteen months later. Emily knew the moment she peeked into her room that morning.
At sixteen, she’d seen it coming—yet it still blindsided her. She’d never accept it. How could Dad stay so composed? Did he even care?
Grief swallowed her whole. It dulled with time, but echoes lingered.
Then one evening, Dad came home with *her*—that same painted woman from the theatre, decades younger. The recognition was foggy but visceral. And the way Dad looked at her—like a cat eyeing cream.
“This is my daughter, Emily. And this is Vanessa…” He faltered, maybe withholding her surname. His eyes pleaded: *Behave.*
“Lovely to meet you,” Vanessa simpered.
“Wish I could say the same,” Emily spat, storming off before her voice cracked.
*How could he?* Mum only gone months, and *this* woman in their house? Their murmurs and laughter seeped under her door. She imagined them kissing. Wanted to scream. But Vanessa’s laughter kept coming—mocking her.
“What the hell was that?” Dad growled after she’d left.
“You bringing your *mistress* here?”
“She’s not—we’re getting *married*. You’re nearly grown—you understand how things are. A man needs—”
“Do you ever think what *I* need?” Emily’s voice broke. Tears spilled.
Two weeks later, Vanessa moved in. Emily refused to acknowledge her—stayed locked in her room, even held her bladder spitefully. Everything about the woman grated.
One day, Vanessa barged in, perching on the bed.
“I didn’t invite you.”
“Like it or not, I’m your father’s wife now. We could make this easier.”
Emily buried herself in a textbook.
Vanessa stood. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Emily stuck out her tongue at her retreating back.
The final straw came when she found Mum’s clothes gone from the wardrobes. *Erased.* She flew at Dad.
“You let her throw out Mum’s things? *How could you?*”
“Were you planning to wear them? They wouldn’t fit. We’re short on space—”
“I *hate* her!” Emily hissed. “I hate *you*! You never loved Mum! And I *remember*—that was *your colleague* at the theatre, wasn’t it? While Mum was still *alive*—” Realisation hit like lightning. She screamed, slammed her door.
Dad followed, bellowing. She shrieked back—she’d leave, free up wardrobe space for Vanessa’s *next fur coat*—
The slam of his door left her hollow. *Unwanted.* She *would* leave—but where? So she stayed. One more year, then university.
She stuck to it—moved to Manchester for school. Dad rarely called; when he did, she cut him off. His money still came. She nearly sent it back—but pride wouldn’t pay rent. *Let Vanessa choke on it.* She never visited.
Final year, his call came. She stared at the screen.
“Speak,” she answered.
“Emily… I… Please come home.” His voice was slurred.
*Drunk?* Impossible. She skipped lectures, raced back. The flat reeked of medicine. Dad sat slumped in a wheelchair.
“Emily…” Tears glistened—or was it his eyes? Her anger crumpled. She hugged him.
She cleaned for hours. No sign of Vanessa. Just a pot of soup in the fridge.
“Who’s been cooking?”
A neighbour, Auntie Maggie—Mum’s old friend—filled in the gaps: The fights. Vanessa’s threats. The night an ambulance took him.
Emily left Auntie Maggie in charge, returning weekly. Dad improved. Mum’s photo reappeared—Vanessa had banished it. After graduation, Emily moved home properly. Found aYears later, holding her own daughter’s hand as they walked past the theatre, Emily finally understood—love doesn’t end with grief, and forgiveness isn’t a betrayal, just a way to mend what’s broken.
