Olivia’s dad was fifteen years older than her mum. He dressed strictly, even a bit old-fashioned—always in trousers, a shirt, and a jacket or jumper. No trainers or T-shirts. He wasn’t like the dads of her friends at all. Olivia adored him. When he came home from work, she’d run to meet him, and he’d scoop her up in his arms, looking into her eyes and asking, “How was my princess’s day?”
She loved when he called her that. She’d hug him tight, breathing in that unique smell—the best smell in the world, the smell of happiness: a mix of aftershave, cigarettes, and something else she couldn’t name.
“What about me? Don’t I get to be a princess?” her mum would joke, pretending to pout for her share of compliments. Her dad would hold Olivia with one arm and wrap the other around her mum, kissing her cheek and saying, “You’re both my favourite princesses.”
Olivia loved this little ritual, which played out every single day.
As she got older, the game faded away. She still went to greet her dad when he came home, but now it was just a quiet “Hey, Dad” instead of rushing at him squealing like a puppy.
“Hey,” he’d reply, hanging his coat on the rack, not quite meeting her eyes like he used to.
She didn’t want him to pick her up and toss her around like a little kid anymore, but why wouldn’t he look at her? Why didn’t he call her princess?
“Late at work again?” she asked once.
“Yeah. What can I do? Comes with the job.”
“What job?”
“I’m the boss, even if it’s just a small shop.” He smoothed his hair and walked past her into the living room. She knew he was lying. He wasn’t stuck at work. Big deal—he ran a little appliance repair shop. Sometimes a customer needed a fridge or vacuum fixed urgently, but people willing to pay double for speed weren’t exactly lining up. Most would rather wait than pay extra. But lately, her dad was coming home late often, and never with flowers. Even on weekends, he’d disappear for “work” for two or three hours, coming back quiet and distant. Olivia could sense something was off—a secret, a lie.
This time, too, he was late.
“Hey. How was school? Mum home?”
He asked, but his eyes didn’t land on her. She knew these were just empty questions, so she didn’t answer. People say girls have intuition young, and hers was screaming that something had changed—that their family wasn’t the same. Why else did Mum’s eyes look red lately? They weren’t arguing in front of her, but they weren’t joking like before either—just talking stiffly, like it took effort.
And his smell was different now—on the days he was “working late.” He looked guilty, uneasy. The flat felt tense, electric. Olivia finally confided in her mum.
“People go through rough patches,” her mum said reluctantly. “If they love each other, it passes.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Then they split up. Try to find happiness with someone else. Sometimes it works.”
“Do you and Dad still love each other?”
“You ask such hard questions,” her mum snapped. “Not everything has a straight answer.” Olivia shut down, retreated to her room.
So they were tired of each other. But what did that mean for her? Were they tired of her too? If they didn’t love each other, did that mean they didn’t love her? Were they getting divorced? Too many questions, no answers.
That summer, they never made it to their usual seaside holiday. Dad claimed work kept him busy, so Olivia and Mum went to her gran’s cottage instead. He didn’t visit like he used to. Olivia overheard Gran scolding Mum: “You left him alone in the city? The man’s barely holding it together as it is, and you gave him free rein! Now look what he’s done—and what you’ve done!”
“Mum, don’t break my heart. I can’t chain him to me. Whatever happens, happens. I’m ready.”
“You’re a fool. Men like him don’t grow on trees. For Olivia’s sake, you could’ve stuck it out.”
“Who’s he leaving us for?” Olivia burst in.
“Eavesdropping?” Gran huffed. “Stay out of grown-up talk. No one’s leaving. We’re just talking about a telly drama.”
“A drama? Don’t treat me like a baby.”
“Go on, scram.”
“I’m not little! I get it.”
“If you’re so grown, let them sort it themselves.”
Dad finally came two weeks later to take them home. Olivia was thrilled; Mum dressed up, did her hair differently. But the tension between them was still there—like live wires sparking. Mum asked idle questions; Dad answered in single words or just stayed silent. The air at home got heavier every day.
Olivia loved December. Her birthday was mid-month, then New Year’s—her favourite time.
After school, she and her mates went to see a comedy at the cinema. They left giggling, quoting their favourite bits. Olivia was in Year 10 now.
Outside, snow fell softly—picture-perfect. The city’s big Christmas tree was up, shop windows glittered with lights, even the trees sparkled.
“Don’t wanna go home yet. Ice cream?” Emma suggested.
“In this cold? You’ll catch tonsillitis, and then Dean’s gonna dance with Sophie at the New Year’s party.” The girls laughed. They teased Emma for fancying Dean, though secretly they were jealous—none of them had boyfriends yet.
Emma huffed, ready to leave, when Olivia spotted her dad. She almost called out—then saw a girl beside him, about her age.
“Hide me,” she muttered, ducking behind Emma, who spun around, confused.
“Stop wiggling!”
Her dad and the girl passed without noticing.
“That’s your dad!” Rachel whispered. “Who’s that with him?”
Olivia stared after them, then hurriedly said goodbye and followed. Maybe she was wrong? No—that was his coat. Just then, he leaned down and said something to the girl. She saw his profile. No mistake. That was him. Were they at the cinema? Who was she? Did Mum know? Olivia was sure she did.
Dad and the girl boarded a bus and left. Olivia missed it. She walked home, torn by questions and dread. Enough secrets. If no one would tell her the truth, she’d find out herself.
But she never got to ask. That night, she spiked a fever, her throat raw. By the time she recovered, Dad had moved out. Mum refused to explain, only saying she couldn’t talk about it yet.
So Olivia went to his work, waited outside. When he came out, she approached.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Olivia? What are you doing here? Is Mum okay?” He looked stunned.
“She’s fine.”
He’d changed—greyer, shoulders slumped, his coat hanging loose. But his face lit up seeing her.
“I came to see you.”
“Alright. Let’s grab a cuppa.”
They sat by a café window. He ordered her favourite cake and tea.
“How’s school? You’ve grown up.”
“If I’m grown up, tell me why you left.”
He wilted, staring at the tablecloth.
“Look…”
“Just say it. I deserve to know. Did you leave for another woman?”
He sighed. “You are grown up. I didn’t leave. Mum asked me to go. Said it was best. Before Mum, there was someone else. Nothing serious, just dating. When I met your mum, I forgot all about her. Then she came back.” He fiddled with his spoon. “She was ill. Said she had a daughter—mine. Asked me to look after her when she was gone.”
“That girl was your daughter? I saw you two before New Year’s.”
“You saw us? Yeah, Natalie and I saw a film. Her mum was really poorly. I was trying to distract her.”
“What if she lied? That woman?”
“People don’t lie when they’re dying. After she passed, I told your mum. I—I didn’t know about Natalie. I asked if she could live with us. Mum said no. Worried you wouldn’t understand, that you’d resent her. Told me to go.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“I was ashamed. Would you have forgiven me?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“I still love your mum. She won’t speak to me. I wanted you to know—I never cheated. This was before her. That woman found out I was getting married and didn’t tell me she was pregnant.”
“You should’ve told me. I had to find out like this. Is she more important than me?”
“No”Years later, looking at her newborn daughter—the spitting image of her father—Olivia finally understood that love isn’t about choosing sides but making room in your heart for all the messy, imperfect pieces of family.”
