The air was crisp and biting, the wind howling through the empty streets. Emily sprinted from school, her breath forming icy clouds that clung to her scarf, her lashes, and the loose strands of hair escaping her woolly hat. Soon she’d be home, sipping steaming tea with lemon, curling up on the sofa under a thick blanket, toes tucked in…
The thought of warmth quickened her steps. Finally, the block of flats loomed ahead. She yanked the heavy door open—only to nearly collide with Aunt Margaret, the plump, sharp-eyed neighbour from the ground floor. Emily disliked her, thought her spiteful. Those beady eyes always scrutinised her, as if searching for something.
“Watch it, you mad thing,” Aunt Margaret grumbled, blocking the doorway, her heavy frame immovable.
“Sorry,” Emily mumbled, shifting uncomfortably.
The woman exhaled sharply, still staring. “Can’t for the life of me figure who you take after. Your father’s got brown eyes, your mother blue—yet here you are, with neither. And the height? They’re tall, and you’re still knee-high.”
“So what?” Emily shot back. “Kids don’t have to be copies of their parents.”
She hadn’t meant to sound rude, but escape seemed impossible without shoving past. She glanced around, hoping another neighbour would approach, but the street was deserted. Something in Aunt Margaret’s gaze unsettled her—those sharp, probing eyes. She wanted to run.
“They don’t,” the woman conceded with a sigh. “But I’ve lived here since the beginning. Saw your mother grow up, marry, then bring you home from the hospital two years later.”
Emily fidgeted, impatient, baffled by the tangent.
“Brought you home—yet I never saw her pregnant. Food for thought, eh?” With that, Aunt Margaret finally stepped aside.
Emily climbed the first few steps, then froze as the door slammed shut behind her. An awful realisation prickled at her. Her face burned; her hands turned to ice. *No, she’s just spiteful. Lonely, bitter, stirring trouble. Means nothing.* But the seed had been planted.
On the third floor, she trudged into the flat, tore off her coat, and snatched the family album. Curling onto the sofa, she flipped through snapshots—Emily swaddled in lace, taking her first steps, a tiny bow on wispy blonde hair, a first-grader dwarfed by a giant bouquet. Her parents in each one, smiling, adoring.
A key turned in the lock. She wiped her eyes hastily.
“Lights off, love?” Her father flicked the switch, flooding the room with a glare that made her squint.
“What’s wrong? You’ve been crying.” He sank beside her, taking the album.
“Dad… am I not yours?”
His face paled. “What on earth makes you think that?”
The fear in his eyes terrified her. She bolted up, knocking the blanket aside.
“Tell me! I have a right to know!” Her voice cracked, eyes locked onto his.
For a heartbeat, she thought he’d laugh it off, call it nonsense. Then he looked away.
Emily didn’t wait. She snatched her hat, shoved her feet into boots, tore her coat from the hook.
“Wait! Let me explain—”
The door slammed behind her, plaster dust raining from the ceiling.
Down the stairs she fled, pulling on her coat, tears blurring her vision. *He couldn’t even look at me. It’s true. I’m not theirs. Then whose am I?*
Outside, the cold seared her tear-streaked face. No gloves. No money. She stumbled through the estate, collapsing onto a snow-dusted bench in the next courtyard, sobbing into her hands.
“You alright?”
She looked up—Daniel from Year Eleven, lanky, a known footballer.
“Come on, you’ll freeze,” he said gruffly.
“Not going anywhere,” she hiccupped.
“Suit yourself. Die here, then, and leave me explaining to your parents why I didn’t drag you inside.” He hauled her up. “Mum and Dad are at the theatre. Tea first, talk after.”
His flat was modern, spacious. He thrust fluffy slippers onto her feet, draped his chunky jumper over her shoulders. The kettle boiled; toast popped up.
“Emily, right?”
She nodded, silent.
“So what’s the emergency?”
She hesitated. Why tell him? But the weight was unbearable. Words spilled out.
Daniel frowned. “That’s it? You ran off over *that*?”
“Easy for you! Your parents are real!”
“They hit you?”
“No!”
“Drink?”
“Don’t be thick! Mum’s an art historian, Dad’s—” She faltered. *Mum. Dad.*
“Then what’s the problem? They love you, clothe you, raised you. Parents aren’t who made you—they’re who *raised* you.” He strode to the window, hands in pockets.
“And how d’you know that neighbour’s not just a bitter old cow?”
“But Dad *couldn’t look at me*!”
“And your grand plan is… what? Run away? Find your *real* parents? Got the cash for that?”
Her breath hitched. He was right.
Then suddenly, he kissed her.
She shoved him back. “What the hell?”
“Thought you’d like it. You’re nobody’s. Might as well be *mine*.”
She backed toward the door, pulse frantic. He advanced.
“Your *real* mum was probably sixteen, dumb in love. Got pregnant. Boyfriend bolted. Her parents sent her off to some aunt’s, kept it hush. Too late for an abortion.”
Emily’s back hit the door. His words were knives.
“She dumped you at the hospital. Why not? She was a kid herself. School, uni, a whole life ahead. Then she met some bloke with a dad who mattered. Played the pure bride. Two kids later, she asked him—*hypothetically*—what he’d think of an adopted kid. Said never. So she kept quiet. Forgot you.”
Her vision swam.
“You’re lucky. Grew up loved. Some old bat mutters shite, and you’re ready to torch it all? Classy.”
She stood frozen, gutted.
“Go find your *real* mum. Bet she’s a drunk. Sell your coat for vodka. Make you work instead of study. Then you’ll wish you’d stayed.”
Tears rolled silently.
“They never looked for you, Emily. They don’t *want* you. So live. Be glad you’ve got parents who *do*.”
“You talk like you *know*,” she whispered.
His smile was bitter. “I do. My birth mum died in labour. A midwife took me from the home. Heard her telling her sister. I’ll *always* be grateful—I wasn’t raised in some hellhole.”
They stood side by side, reflections ghostly in the dark glass.
“Thanks,” she finally said. “Can I go?”
He shrugged.
She ran home, numb to the cold, heart pounding. The door flew open before she could knock—her mother, tear-streaked, desperate.
“Emily—”
She collapsed into her arms. “I’m sorry. I love you. You’re my *real* parents.”
Her father joined the embrace, the three of them clinging in the cramped hallway.
Teens are reckless, cruel, self-absorbed. They love and rage at full tilt.
Emily was lucky. Daniel forced her to see the truth.
Mistakes happen young. Not all can be undone.
Just forget.
