Sophie’s father was fifteen years older than her mum. He always dressed smartly, even a bit old-fashioned—never in trainers or T-shirts, always in trousers, a shirt, and a jumper or blazer. Nothing like the dads of her friends. Sophie adored him. When he came home from work, she’d run to him, and he’d scoop her up, gazing 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 scent—the best smell in the world, the smell of happiness: a mix of aftershave, cigarettes, and something else she couldn’t name.
“Mum, am I not a princess too?” her mum would pout, fishing for compliments. Dad would hold Sophie with one arm and wrap the other around Mum, kissing her cheek. “You’re both my favourite princesses.”
Sophie adored this little ritual, repeated every day.
As she got older, the game faded. She still greeted him, but no longer with squeals or puppy-like excitement—just a quiet, “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi,” he’d reply, hanging his coat without looking at her.
She didn’t want him to lift her like a child anymore, but why wouldn’t he look her in the eye? Why had he stopped calling her princess?
“Late at work again?” Sophie asked.
“Yeah. What can you do? Comes with the job.”
“What job?”
“I’m a manager, even if it’s just a small one.” He smoothed his hair and walked past her.
She knew he was lying. He wasn’t staying late at work—a supervisor at an appliance repair shop didn’t have clients lining up to pay double for urgent fixes. People waited to avoid extra charges. But lately, he came home late more often—no flowers, no excuses. Even on weekends, he’d disappear for hours, returning quiet and distant. Sophie sensed secrecy, lies.
This time, he was late again.
“Hi. How’s school? Mum home?”
He asked without looking at her, his voice automatic. She didn’t answer. Girls had intuition, even young ones, and hers screamed that something was wrong. Mum’s red eyes, their forced conversations, the tension—like walking on eggshells.
And his smell—different on those “late work” days. Guilty. Uncomfortable.
One day, Sophie confronted Mum.
“People get tired, love. But if they care, they push through,” Mum said reluctantly.
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they leave. Try to find happiness elsewhere. Doesn’t always work.”
“Do you and Dad still love each other?”
“Sophie, not every question **has** an answer.” Mum’s sharp tone made her retreat to her room.
So they were tired of each other. But what about her? Did they tire of her too? If they stopped loving each other, did that mean they’d stopped loving her? Would they divorce? Too many questions, no answers.
That summer, they skipped their usual holiday to Brighton. Dad stayed behind, “working,” while Mum and Sophie visited Gran in the countryside. He didn’t come on weekends like he used to. One evening, Sophie overheard Gran scolding Mum.
“You left him alone in the city! The marriage is hanging by a thread, and you just—”
“Mum, don’t. I won’t chain him down. Whatever happens, happens.”
“Fool. Men like him don’t grow on trees. For Sophie’s sake, you should’ve—”
“Gran, what’s going on? Is Dad leaving us?” Sophie burst in.
“Eavesdropping? Stay out of grown-up business. We’re just talking about a soap.”
“Yeah, right. Like I’m stupid.”
“Go,” Gran snapped.
“I’m **not** stupid. I get it.”
“If you’re so clever, let them sort it out.”
Two weeks later, Dad finally came to take them home. Sophie was thrilled; Mum even dressed up. But the air between them crackled with unspoken words. Mum asked small things, Dad replied in monosyllables. Each day, the tension grew.
Sophie loved December—her birthday mid-month, then Christmas. Festive lights, snow, the high street glowing.
After school, she and her mates went to see a comedy. They left the cinema giggling, quoting their favourite lines. Sophie was fifteen now.
Outside, snow fell softly. The square’s giant tree shimmered; shop windows twinkled with fairy lights.
“Ice cream?” her mate Jess asked.
“In **this** weather? You’ll get tonsillitis, and Jake’ll dance with Bex at the Christmas party.” They cackled. Jess had a crush on Jake—the only one of them with a “boyfriend.”
Jess huffed, about to leave—when Sophie saw him.
Dad.
She ducked behind Jess. “Hide me.”
“Wha—?” Jess spun, confused.
“Stop moving!”
Dad walked past, arm in arm with a girl Sophie’s age.
“That **is** your dad!” Jess hissed. “Who’s **that**?”
Sophie stared, then hurried after them. Maybe she was wrong? No—that was his coat. He leaned down, whispering to the girl. His profile confirmed it. **Him.**
Had they just seen a film? Who was she? Did Mum know?
They boarded a bus before Sophie could follow. She walked home, questions gnawing at her. This time, she **would** get answers.
But she never asked. That night, a fever spiked—tonsillitis. By the time she recovered, Dad was gone.
Mum refused to explain. “Not now.”
So Sophie went to his work. Waited outside. When he emerged, she approached.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Sophie? What’s wrong? Is Mum—?”
“She’s fine. I came to see **you**.”
He looked exhausted. Grey hairs, slumped shoulders, his coat hanging loose. But his face lit up.
They sat in a café. He ordered her favourite cake.
“How’s school? You’ve grown.”
“If I’m so grown up, tell me why you left.”
He deflated, staring at the tablecloth.
“I didn’t leave. Mum asked me to go.”
Sophie blinked. **What?**
He sighed. “There was someone before Mum. Just a fling. But when I met your mum, I forgot about her. Then, years later, she reappeared. Dying. Said she had a daughter—**mine**. Asked me to care for her.”
**”That** girl? I saw you with her!”
Dad nodded. “Natasha. Her mum passed soon after. I told your mum. Begged her to let Natasha live with us. But she said no. Worried you’d resent her. Told me to go.”
“Why didn’t **you** tell me?”
“I… didn’t know how. Would you have forgiven me?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“I never stopped loving your mum. But Natasha’s my daughter too. What was I supposed to do?”
Sophie stood. “I need time.”
He didn’t chase her.
At home, she told Mum everything.
“I knew you’d find out,” Mum whispered. “How… is he?”
“Not great. Older. Thinner.”
Mum exhaled shakily.
“Why did you **make** him leave? I love him too! Now everyone’s miserable—except **her**!” The words spilled out. “I **hate** you!”
Mum flinched. Tears fell.
Sophie instantly regretted it. “Mum, I’m sorry—”
They clung to each other, sobbing.
“I haven’t lived since he left,” Mum admitted.
“Then let’s **go** to him. Now.”
Mum froze. “What if he doesn’t want me?”
“You’re both ridiculous. **Talk.** And I want to meet my sister.”
Dad opened the door, stunned. Natasha—taller, sixteen, studying accounting—shyly greeted them.
They talked. No shouting. But things stayed as they were.
Three years later, Dad died.
The sisters only bonded after the funeral. Grief united them—two princesses, one father.
Natasha eventually married, moved to Manchester. They called sometimes, exchanged birthday cards.
Then, one day:
“I’ve had a boy! Named him after Dad—Edward. You mind?”
Sophie forced a smile. “No.”
**Liar.** She’d wanted to name **her** son Edward. Natasha always leaped first.
But later, she rang back. “Congrats, sis.”
Who’d stop **her** using the name too? Not like she had kids yet. Maybe she’d have a girl. She wasn’t even engaged. The thought made her laugh.
Life was messy. Unpredictable. Too short for grudges.
Some things couldn’t be fixed. But family? That was worth fighting for. Even when love got tangled, even when pride said **walk away**—sometimes, you heldAnd as time passed, Sophie realised that love, even when fractured, could still weave its own unexpected path—leaving room for forgiveness, for new beginnings, and for the quiet understanding that some bonds, no matter how tangled, could never truly be broken.
