The air is sharp and biting as Emily hurries home from school, her breath forming little clouds in the frosty afternoon. Her scarf catches the mist, her eyelashes dusted with icy crystals from the wind. All she can think about is the warmth waiting for her—steaming tea with lemon, curling up under a blanket on the sofa, kicking off her boots…
The thought makes her quicken her pace. Finally, the block of flats comes into view. She yanks open the front door and nearly collides with Mrs. Higgins, the stout neighbour from the ground floor. Emily has never liked her—always watching with those beady little eyes, pinning her with that judgemental stare.
“Watch where you’re going, you little whirlwind! Nearly knocked me over,” Mrs. Higgins grumbles, not budging from the doorway.
“Sorry,” Emily mutters, shifting uncomfortably.
The woman lingers, arms crossed. “Funny thing, I can never place who you look like. Your dad’s got dark eyes, your mum’s are blue, but you—” She tilts her head. “You’re fair, like neither of them. Odd, isn’t it?”
Emily frowns. “Does it matter? Kids don’t have to be copies of their parents.”
She doesn’t mean to sound rude, but the woman’s stare makes her skin prickle. She glances past her, hoping someone else will come through the door—any excuse to escape. But the street is empty.
“Course they don’t,” Mrs. Higgins sighs. “But I’ve lived in this building since the day it went up. I watched your mother grow up, saw her marry your father. Two years later, she came home from hospital with you.”
Emily shifts from foot to foot, impatient, unsure where this is leading.
“Came home with you—except I never saw her pregnant. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” With a final piercing look, Mrs. Higgins finally moves aside.
Emily takes the stairs two at a time, but as the front door slams behind her, something clicks. She freezes mid-step. Her face burns, her fingers go numb. *No—she’s just spiteful. Lonely, with no family, so she spreads rubbish. Not seeing Mum pregnant means nothing!* But the doubt takes root.
Upstairs, she flips through the family album—baby photos, first steps, her first day of school dwarfed by flowers. Mum and Dad smile back from every page, their love for her unmistakable.
The sound of a key in the lock makes her shut the album quickly, wiping her eyes.
“Em? Why’s it so dark in here?” Her father flicks the switch, flooding the room with light. He takes one look at her and sits beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She swallows. “Dad… am I not really yours?”
His face falters—just for a second—but it’s enough. She throws off the blanket, heart pounding.
“Tell me! I have a right to know!”
He looks away.
Tears blur her vision. She grabs her coat, shoves her feet into boots, and bolts out the door before he can stop her. The slam rattles the walls.
Downstairs, the cold hits her like a slap. No gloves, no scarf, no money—just panic and betrayal. She stumbles into the next street, collapsing onto a snow-dusted bench, sobbing into her hands.
“Oi. Why the waterworks?”
She looks up—it’s Jake from Year Eleven, from the football team.
“Come on,” he says, not asking. “My place. You can’t sit here freezing.”
She hesitates, but he pulls her up. “Mum and Dad are at the theatre. You’ll warm up, tell me what’s wrong.”
His flat is bigger than hers, modern. He shoves fluffy slippers at her, drapes a chunky jumper over her shoulders. The kettle boils as he fixes toast.
“Emily, right?” He hands her tea. “What happened?”
She doesn’t want to tell him—barely knows him—but the words spill out.
Jake scoffs. “And you *ran* over that?”
“It’s easy for you! Your parents are really yours!”
“Do they hit you?”
“No!”
“Drink? Gamble?”
“*No*—Mum’s an art lecturer, Dad’s—” She stops. She still calls them *Mum* and *Dad*.
“Then what’s the problem? Parents aren’t just the people who made you—they’re the ones who raised you.” He stands by the window, hands shoved in his pockets. “Besides, how d’you know that busybody wasn’t lying?”
“But Dad couldn’t look at me! He didn’t deny it!”
“So what’ll you do? Run away? Find your ‘real’ parents? Got money for that?” His voice is calm, but his words sting.
She falters.
He turns suddenly, kissing her. She shoves him back.
“What was *that*?”
“You’re nobody’s? Fine. Be mine.”
She stumbles toward the door, but he blocks her.
“Imagine your parents at sixteen—madly in love. Then your ‘real’ mum gets pregnant. Her boyfriend bolts. Her parents freak—too late for an abortion. They ship her off to her nan’s in another town. She has the baby, leaves it at the hospital. Why? She’s a kid herself. School, uni, life ahead.”
Emily’s back hits the door.
Jake keeps going. “Later, she meets a bloke. His dad’s loaded. They think she’s perfect—pure, polite. Fancy wedding, two kids. One day, she asks her husband how he’d feel about adopting. He says *never*. So she keeps quiet. Loses nothing. Forgets you.”
Her legs give out. She sinks onto a chair.
“Be grateful you weren’t dumped in care. You had love. And over some gossip, you’re ready to throw it away?”
She stares at him.
“Still not happy? Fine. Track her down. Maybe she’s a drunk who’ll sell your coat for vodka. Then you’ll wish you’d stayed.”
Tears drip onto her knees.
“You think I don’t get it?” His voice drops. “My mum died giving birth to me. A midwife adopted me from the children’s home. I overheard her telling my aunt. I’ll never hate her for it—she saved me.”
Emily meets his eyes.
“Go home,” he says softly.
She runs. The cold doesn’t touch her.
The second she rings the bell, the door flies open—Mum’s been waiting. Her face is tear-streaked, wrecked.
“Emily—”
She crashes into her arms. “I’m sorry. I love you. You *are* my parents.”
Her father joins the hug, holding them tight in the tiny hallway.
Teenagers feel everything too fast—love, rage, hurt. Emily was lucky Jake made her stop and think.
Mistakes happen young. Not all can be fixed.
But today, hers was.
