It was freezing cold and windy outside. Emily was running home from school to keep warm. Her breath formed little clouds in the air, frosting her scarf, eyelashes, and the strands of hair peeking out from under her woolly hat. Soon she’d be home, sipping hot tea with lemon, curling up on the sofa under a blanket, cozy and safe.
Just thinking about it made her hurry faster. There was the entrance to her building. She yanked the door open—only to nearly crash into Mrs. Thompson, their short, round-faced neighbour. Emily never liked her, always found her nosey. Mrs. Thompson would squint her dark little eyes, giving Emily that judgy once-over.
“Watch where you’re going, you little whirlwind,” she grumbled, glaring.
“Sorry,” Emily muttered, feeling awkward.
The woman stood there, blocking the doorway.
“I can’t for the life of me figure out who you take after. Your dad’s got brown eyes, your mum’s got blue—and you? And your hair’s nothing like theirs. They’re tall; you’re barely five foot.”
“So what?” Emily shot back. “Do kids have to be carbon copies of their parents?”
She didn’t mean to sound rude, but how was she supposed to get past her? She glanced around, hoping someone else would come to the door, but no one did. Something about Mrs. Thompson’s stare unsettled her. She just wanted to escape those sharp, prying eyes.
“They don’t have to be,” the woman sighed. “But I’ve lived here since this building was new, watched your mum grow up. I saw her get married, and two years later, she came home from the hospital with you.”
Emily shifted impatiently, not getting her point.
“She brought you home from hospital, but I never saw her pregnant. So think on that—why don’t you look a thing like them?” Finally, she stepped aside, letting Emily pass.
Emily climbed two steps before the door slammed shut behind her. Suddenly, it hit her. She froze on the staircase, her face burning, hands icy. *No, she’s just being bitter. Spinster with no husband or kids, spreading gossip. Just because she never saw Mum pregnant, it doesn’t mean anything.* But the words stuck.
Slowly, she made her way to their third-floor flat in the old brick block, kicked off her shoes, and grabbed the family album. Curled up on the sofa, she flipped through photos—her wrapped in a lace-trimmed blanket, her first wobbly steps, her hair in a tiny bow on her first day of school. And there, her parents, smiling, loving.
Keys jingled in the door. She wiped her eyes fast.
“Em, why you sitting in the dark?” Her dad flicked the light on, the sudden brightness making her blink.
“Something wrong?” He sat beside her. “Been looking at old photos?” He took the album.
“Dad… am I not yours?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
His face went pale. “Em, where’d you get that idea?”
She saw the fear in his eyes and bolted up, shaking. “Tell me the truth!”
He looked away.
“That’s answer enough.” She grabbed her coat, shoved her feet into boots, and slammed the door so hard, plaster dust rained from the ceiling.
Tears blurred her vision as she sprinted downstairs. *He couldn’t even look at me. It’s true. I’m not theirs.*
Outside, the cold stung her tear-streaked face. No gloves, no money—just panic. She stumbled into a nearby park, collapsing onto a snow-dusted bench, sobbing into her hands.
“Why the waterworks?”
She looked up—Tom from Year 11 stood there.
“Come on, spill it,” he said, pulling her up.
“I’m not going anywhere—”
“You *are*, before you freeze. Mum and Dad are out. We’ll have tea; you’ll talk.”
His flat was bigger, nicer than hers. He stuffed her into fluffy slippers, draped a chunky jumper over her, and made toast while the kettle boiled.
“Emily, right?” He poured the tea.
She nodded.
“So what’s the drama?”
She didn’t want to tell him—barely knew him—but the words spilled out.
“That’s it? You bolted over *that*?” Tom scoffed.
“Easy for you! *Your* parents are actually yours!”
“Do they hit you?”
“No!”
“Drink?”
“Mum’s an art historian; Dad’s—” She choked. She’d called them *Mum and Dad*.
“Then what’s the problem? They love you. Raised you. *That’s* what makes parents.” He stared out the window. “Besides, how d’you know that busybody didn’t just make it up?”
“But Dad couldn’t *look* at me!”
“And what’re you gonna do? Run off? Hunt down your *real* parents? Got the cash for that?” His voice was calm, chilling.
She stared, stunned.
Then he kissed her.
She shoved him. “What the—?!”
“Relax. You’re nobody’s. Might as well be mine.”
She backed toward the door as he advanced.
“Imagine your *real* mum,” he said, voice dark. “Sixteen, in love. Then pregnant. Her boyfriend bolted. Her parents shipped her off to some aunt’s. She left you at the hospital. Why? She had a life to live. School. Uni. Later, she married some posh bloke. Had kids. Asked him once—*What if I’d had a kid before you?* He said he’d never accept it. So she forgot you.”
Emily’s legs gave out.
“Be glad you weren’t dumped in care. You got love. And now some bitter old bat whispers crap, and you’re ready to throw it all away? *Nice.*”
Her hands trembled.
“Go find your *real* mum then. Bet she’s some wreck who’ll sell your coat for booze. You’ll beg to come back.”
His words cut deep.
“You sound like you *know*,” she whispered.
He turned. “Yeah. ‘Cause my mum died when I was born. The midwife took me from the orphanage. I overheard her telling her sister. Never said a word. She’s all I’ve got.”
Emily stood beside him, their reflections ghostly in the dark glass.
“Thanks,” she said finally. “I get it now. I should go.”
“Do.”
She ran home, heart pounding. The door flew open before she even rang—her mum, tear-streaked, arms outstretched.
“Emily—”
She crashed into her, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I love you. You’re my family.”
Her dad wrapped them both in a hug.
Teenagers are reckless. Impulsive.
Emily was lucky Tom showed her the truth before she ruined everything.
Some mistakes can’t be undone.
