The Other Daughter
Irina’s father was fifteen years older than her mother. He dressed strictly, even old-fashioned—always in trousers, a shirt, a jacket, or a jumper. Never trainers or T-shirts. He wasn’t like the other dads her friends had. And Irina adored him. When he came home from work, she’d run to meet him, and he’d scoop her into his arms, gaze into her eyes, and ask,
“How was my princess’s day?”
She loved when he called her that. She’d hug him, breathing in his scent—the best smell in the world, the smell of happiness: a mix of cologne, cigarettes, and something inexplicable.
“And what about me? Aren’t I a princess too?” her mother would ask, pouting playfully, fishing for her own compliments. Her father would hold Irina with one arm and embrace her mother with the other, kissing her cheek.
“You’re both my most beloved princesses.”
Irina adored this daily ritual.
But as she grew older, the game faded. She still met her father at the door, but no longer with squeals of joy—just a quiet, “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello,” he’d reply, hanging his coat without looking at her.
She didn’t want him to swing her around like a child anymore—but why wouldn’t he look her in the eye? Why had he stopped calling her his princess?
“You worked late again?” she asked once.
“Yes. What can I do? It’s my job.”
“What job?”
“I’m a manager, even if it’s small.” He smoothed his hair and walked past her.
She knew he was lying. He wasn’t some high-powered executive—just a supervisor at an appliance repair shop. Sure, sometimes a client paid extra for urgent service, but that was rare. Lately, though, he was always “working late,” coming home without flowers. Even on weekends, he disappeared for hours, returning quiet and distant. Something was wrong.
This time, he was late again.
“Hi. How was school? Is Mum home?”
He asked without looking at her. She knew he didn’t really want an answer—he was just going through the motions. She stayed silent.
They say girls have intuition, even young ones. Hers told her something had changed. Her parents barely spoke now, and when they did, it was strained. Her mother’s eyes were often red lately. And her father’s scent—those days he was “working late”—was different. He looked guilty. The flat felt tense, charged.
Once, she asked her mother about it.
“People get tired sometimes. But if they love each other, it passes.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they part ways. Try to find happiness elsewhere. Though it doesn’t always work.”
“Do you and Dad still love each other?”
“That’s too complicated. Not everything has a simple answer,” her mother snapped.
So they had tired of each other. But what did that mean for her? Had they tired of her too? If they stopped loving each other, did they stop loving her? Would they divorce? Too many questions, no answers.
That summer, they didn’t go on holiday. Her father stayed in the city, while Irina and her mother visited her grandmother’s cottage. He never came.
One day, she overheard her grandmother scolding her mother:
“You left him alone in the city? The marriage is already hanging by a thread!”
“Mum, don’t break my heart. I can’t chain him to me. Whatever happens, happens.”
“You’re a fool. Men like him don’t grow on trees. You should’ve stayed for Irina’s sake!”
“Gran, what’s happening? Is Dad leaving us?” Irina burst in.
“Eavesdropping? Stay out of grown-up talk. We’re just discussing a show.”
“A show? Do you think I’m stupid?”
Her father finally came to fetch them two weeks later. Irina was thrilled; her mother had dressed up. But tension crackled between them. Every day, the air grew heavier.
December was Irina’s favourite month—her birthday, then Christmas.
One evening, she and her friends left the cinema laughing, snow falling around them. The town square glittered with lights, a towering Christmas tree at its centre.
“Let’s get ice cream!” one friend said.
“In this cold? You’ll get sick!”
They giggled—until Irina saw her father. She ducked behind her friend.
A girl about her age walked beside him.
“That’s your dad!” her friend whispered. “Who’s that?”
Irina followed them. The girl laughed as her father leaned down to say something. She recognized his coat, his profile. No mistake.
They boarded a tram before she could catch up.
That night, she fell ill. By the time she recovered, her father had left.
Her mother refused to explain.
So Irina went to his workplace. When she saw him, he looked haggard, his hair greyer.
“Ira? What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
They sat at a café. He ordered her favourite cake.
“Why did you leave us?” she asked bluntly.
He sighed and stared at the tablecloth.
“There was a woman before your mother. It wasn’t serious—until she reappeared years later. Said she was dying. That she had my daughter.”
“The girl I saw?”
“Natalie. Her mother died. I told your mother, asked if Natalie could live with us. But she refused. Said I should go to her instead.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Maybe I was ashamed. Would you have forgiven me?”
“I don’t know.”
He still loved her mother. But she wouldn’t answer his calls.
At home, Irina confronted her mother, who finally asked, “How is he?”
“Not well. He says he always loved you.”
Her mother exhaled.
“Why did you send him away? I love him too! Now we’re all miserable!”
The words tumbled out—words she hadn’t meant to say.
Her mother’s tears fell.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!”
Her mother whispered, “I haven’t lived since he left.”
“Let’s go to him. Now.”
They did. He answered the door, stunned.
Natalie was older—seventeen, in college for accounting. Irina’s parents talked at last, calmly. But they let things stay as they were.
Three years later, he died.
The sisters only grew close after his funeral. There was nothing left to fight over. Soon, Natalie married and moved away. But they called sometimes—birthdays, Christmas.
“I had a son! I named him Victor, after Dad. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
Irina lied. She had wanted to name her son Victor. Natalie always rushed ahead. But she laughed it off later.
Life was unpredictable. Too short for grudges. People tired of each other, but love could bring them back—if they let it. The important thing was family. And if they were lucky, happiness too.
