The moment Eleanor discovered her father’s affair felt like stepping into an illogical dream. She’d skipped school that Tuesday to accompany her friend Sienna to a tattooist. Needing to ditch her school uniform, she darted home to change. Balancing precariously on one leg, one foot trapped in her jeans, she froze as the front door key turned. Burglars? No – her father’s voice drifted in, mid-conversation.
“Just grabbing the kit and heading straight out. Can’t claim I was at practice if my gym bag sits under the bed, can I?”
She realised her error; he wasn’t on the phone, he was recording a voice note. A minute later, a woman’s voice purred: “Sweetheart, I’ve missed you dreadfully, hurry up! I’ve baked your favourite sausage rolls. Kisses!” Recognition dawned slowly. That was Aunt Kate, her father’s colleague and her mother’s best friend’s sister. Eleanor had always liked Aunt Kate – impossibly cool, listening to modern beats unlike her parents’ dreary tunes. Only then did the words truly register. The lock clicked again, silence fell. Perched on the bed, Eleanor replayed it. Impossible. Yet true. Her father was unfaithful. What now? Tell Mum? How to face him? How to face Aunt Kate?
Baffled and burdened, she fled to meet Sienna, who’d sent five impatient texts. They’d spent weeks agonising over designs, Sienna expertly forging her mother’s signature. Eleanor’s enthusiasm vanished. “El, what’s up?” Sienna pressed. “Sulking? Do you want ink too? We’ll forge the waiver!” The urge to share the awful secret was crushing, yet unthinkable. Eleanor pretended it was the tattoo.
For two weeks, concentration fled. She avoided friends, snapped at Mum, treated Dad with icy contempt. Stuck. Once, she nearly confessed, but Mum was berating her over a chemistry fail, escalating into a blazing row. That evening, Mum appeared at her door bearing an eclair – Eleanor’s weakness. “Sorry for shouting, love. Not very grown-up, is it? I just fret about your GCSEs, want everything perfect…” “Mum, relax! I’ll pass! Is that eclair for me?” “Course. Truce? Hate us bickering.” Taking the eclair, kissing Mum’s cheek, Eleanor vowed: she’d never inflict that pain. If Mum cried over a silly spat, imagine real betrayal. Mum must *never* know.
So Eleanor became her father’s unwilling accomplice: covering his ‘late nights’, reminding him of birthdays or Mum’s errands, distracting Mum during his calls. Simultaneously, she ignored his requests, gave curt replies, barely muffling her disgust.
Then, oddly, things settled. Dad returned on time. Eleanor passed her GCSEs, moved into Year 11. The nightmare faded. She met Mitya, nineteen, a first-year law student who played guitar. They’d drift apart from the gang during evening walks. One sunset, lost by the town fountain, she realised she was late. Tiptoeing home, she breathed: *Safe*. “Eleanor?” Her mother peered in. “Bit past curfew.” Expecting wrath, Eleanor saw only vague curiosity. “Sorry, lost track with Sienna. Mum, are you alright?” Even in the lamplight, Mum’s eyes looked red-rimmed. “Fine. You or Dad didn’t buy jewellery lately? Took my eye off a receipt for earrings…” A sixth sense screamed caution. “Earrings?” “Just wondered…” “Oh! Right! Sorry, forgot to mention. Needed money for Sienna’s birthday gift. Her ears were pierced recently. Too pricey?” Mum’s face instantly brightened. “No, no, sweet pea! Forget it. You being so thoughtful, just like Dad!” Lying felt vile. Next day, resolve hardened: enough. Confronting Dad was dreadful. But Aunt Kate… The newspaper office where they worked – him a reporter, her the editor-in-chief. Easy access; Dad brought her along years back.
Timing was key. Dad mentioned interviewing a factory manager. Perfect. After first period, Eleanor bolted, Sienna covering her absence. The bus delivered her within half an hour. Reception waved her through. She knocked on the ‘Editor-in-Chief’ door. “Come!” Aunt Kate looked up, startled. “Eleanor? Looking for Dad? He’s interviewing…” Suppressing wobbling knees, Eleanor sat opposite the desk. Words, planned en route, dissolved. She blurted, “Dad bought those earrings for you, didn’t he?” Sparkling crystal studs glittered in Aunt Kate’s ears. “Pardon?” “Mum found the receipt. Aren’t you ashamed?” Confusion flickered, then annoyance surfaced. “You think Dad bought jewellery?” “Earrings! Don’t pretend ignorance!” A long silence. Aunt Kate finally spoke, voice low. “Go home, sweetie. Best stay out of adult business.” Something in the tone chilled Eleanor. Far messier than she’d thought. On the bus home, dread hit: Aunt Kate would tell Dad. Explanations demanded. Mum finding out inevitable. That evening, feigning a headache, Eleanor went to bed early. Dad arrived late – likely talking to Aunt Kate. Next morning, he acted normal towards her, yet seemed distracted, frowning, giving Mum odd answers. A week later, he packed a suitcase, left to live with Lucy, the intern. The earrings were for *Lucy*. Aunt Kate had sacked her rival. Eleanor pieced it together from Mum’s tearful chats with her friend: “Forgive Kate! Saintly woman, sacking that trollop outright when she found out Henry was straying! Imagine him leaving for *her*! Guilt, I suppose. Don’t fret, he’ll regret losing you!” “No, it’s my fault! Neglecting him, snooping… Kate’s blameless!” Only Eleanor knew the truth: *her* fault. If only… Nightmare engulfed them: Mum weeping daily, schoolwork failing, friendships souring, Sienna included. Mitya? Constant rows since becoming ‘official’ – his band practice and courier job left little time. Finally, a huge cinema queue bust-up; he missed the start and she refused to watch ‘half a film’, storming off, ignoring his calls. Now, she waited an hour after Mum left for work, returning home uncaring about school exclusion, parental lectures. Hypocrites. Why not her? The turning key thrust her back to that cursed afternoon. Reverse time, please! She listened. Mum’s familiar sounds. Then… male laughter? A boyfriend? Can’t let them think the house empty. Bursting into the hall, a sarcastic ‘hello’ died on her lips. Dad stood there. “Eleanor?” Mum looked bewildered. “Why home?” Eleanor remembered: skipping. “Tummy ache. Sent home.”
“Ache?” Dad looked concerned. “Call a doctor?” “Why is *he* here?” Mum laid a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Eleanor, we need a chat. Your room.” Dad, as if never leaving, kicked off his shoes, drifted kitchenwards. Mum guided her inside. “Why’s he here?” Mum sighed. “He’s your dad. Stop scowling. We all make mistakes, Eleanor. Forgiveness matters. Dad messed up, but he’s sorry. He wants to come home.” “Home?” “It *is* his home.”
Then the tattoo needle buzzed like a persistent wasp trapped in her skull, etching its permanence as the ink sank in – a stark, absurd truth stinging beneath raw skin while the distant chime of cathedral bells dissolved into rain-streaked windowpanes.
The Freedom to Fail.
