The Other Daughter
Irina’s father was fifteen years older than her mother. He dressed formally, even old-fashioned, always in trousers, a shirt, and a jacket or jumper—never trainers or T-shirts. He didn’t look anything like the dads of her friends. Irina adored him. When he came home from work, she would run to meet him, and he’d scoop her up in his arms, looking into her eyes as he asked:
“How was my princess’s day?”
She loved when he called her that. She’d hug him tight, breathing in that unforgettable scent—the best smell in the world, the smell of happiness: a mix of aftershave, cigarettes, and something else she couldn’t name.
“Am I not a princess too?” her mother would joke, pouting playfully, fishing for her own share of compliments. Her father would hold Irina with one arm and wrap the other around her mother, kissing her cheek.
“You’re both my most cherished princesses.”
Irina loved this little ritual, repeated day after day.
As she grew older, the game faded naturally. She still met her father when he came home, but no longer rushed at him with squeals of puppy-like joy. Instead, she simply said:
“Hello, Dad.”
“Hello,” he’d reply, hanging his coat without quite looking at her.
She didn’t want him to pick her up like a child anymore, but why didn’t he look her in the eyes now? Why had he stopped calling her his princess?
“Late at work again?” she asked.
“Yes. What can I do? That’s the job.”
“What job?”
“I’m a manager, even if it’s a small one.” He smoothed his hair with a hand and walked past her into the room.
Irina knew he was lying. He wasn’t at work. So what if he ran a small appliance repair shop? Sure, sometimes a customer needed a fridge or vacuum fixed urgently, but people rarely paid double for faster service. Most would wait to avoid extra costs. Yet lately, her father was often “working late,” coming home without flowers. Even on weekends, he’d disappear for hours, returning quiet and distant. There was something secretive in it all—something dishonest.
“Hello. How was school? Is Mum home?”
He asked out of habit, not really listening, his eyes glancing past her. She didn’t bother answering. They say even little girls have intuition, and hers told her something had changed. Her parents weren’t fighting outright, but the warmth was gone—conversations forced, her mother’s eyes often red. And her father’s scent was different on those “late work” days. He seemed guilty, unsettled. The flat felt tense, charged.
Once, she confided in her mother.
“People go through hard times. But if they love each other, it passes,” her mother said reluctantly.
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they part ways. Try to find happiness elsewhere. Sometimes it works.”
“Do you and Dad still love each other?”
“You ask such difficult things. Not everything has a simple answer,” her mother snapped. Irina fell silent, retreating to her room.
Had her parents tired of each other? But what did that mean for her? Had they tired of her too? If they didn’t love each other anymore, did they still love her? Would they divorce? Too many questions, too few answers.
That summer, they didn’t go on their usual trip south. Her father stayed working, while Irina and her mother visited her grandmother’s cottage. He didn’t come on weekends as he used to. One day, she overheard her grandmother chiding her mother:
“You left him alone in the city when things are already hanging by a thread! Men like him don’t stay idle.”
“Mum, please. I won’t chain him to me. Whatever happens, happens.”
“You’re a fool. You should’ve held on, for Irina’s sake. Why hand him over to some—?”
“Gran, what are you talking about? Is Dad leaving us?” Irina burst in.
“Eavesdropping, are you? Stay out of grown-up matters!”
“A soap opera, I suppose?” Irina scoffed.
“Go on, don’t interfere.”
Two weeks later, her father finally came to fetch them. Irina was overjoyed; her mother dressed up, fixed her hair. But tension crackled between them. Her mother asked empty questions; her father answered in monosyllables or stayed silent. Every day, the strain grew.
Irina loved December—her birthday mid-month, then New Year’s. After school one day, she and her friends went to the cinema, laughing as they left, caught up in the film’s best moments. Snow fell softly, the town square glowing with a towering Christmas tree, shopfronts twinkling with lights.
“Let’s get ice cream,” her friend Emily suggested.
“In this cold? You’ll catch a chill, and then Tom will dance with Charlotte at the party,” the girls teased, laughter ringing.
Emily huffed, about to leave, when Irina spotted her father—and a girl she didn’t know, about her age. “Hide me,” she whispered, ducking behind Emily.
They passed without noticing her.
“That’s your dad!” Rachel hissed. “Who’s that with him?”
Heart pounding, Irina followed at a distance. No mistake—it was him. She saw his profile as he bent to say something to the girl. Were they at the cinema too? Who was she? Did her mother know? The two boarded a bus before she could follow.
At home, her mind raced with questions. If no one would tell her the truth, she’d find it herself. She’d confront her father.
But she fell ill before she could. By the time she recovered, he had left. Her mother refused to explain, saying only, “Not now.”
So Irina went to his workplace. When he stepped out, she approached.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Irina? What’s wrong? Is your mother—?”
“She’s fine.”
He looked older, shoulders slumped, his coat loose. Yet he brightened at the sight of her.
“I came to see you.”
They sat in a café. He ordered her favourite cake and tea.
“How’s school? You’ve grown so much.”
“If I’m grown up, then tell me—why did you leave us?”
His face fell. He traced an invisible stain on the tablecloth. “Your mother asked me to go. There was… another woman. Before her. She came to me—” he hesitated. “She was ill. Dying. She had a daughter. Mine.”
“The girl I saw?”
“Yes. Natalie. I told your mother. She said she wouldn’t raise another woman’s child. She told me to leave.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“I was ashamed. Would you have forgiven me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I never betrayed your mother. This was before her. The woman only told me when she knew I was marrying someone else.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“What could I have done? She’s my daughter too.”
At home, Irina confronted her mother, who sighed. “I knew you’d find out. How is he?”
“Not well. He misses you.”
Her mother stared out the window. “Why did you send him away? I love him too! Now everyone’s miserable except that girl!” The words tumbled out—words she didn’t mean.
Her mother trembled, tears falling. “I’m sorry,” Irina choked, hugging her. Between sobs, her mother whispered that she hadn’t lived since he left.
“Then let’s go to him!”
In a daze, they did. He answered the door, stunned. Natalie was older, in college, training as an accountant. They talked, but nothing was decided.
Three years later, he died. The sisters only grew close after the funeral. Grief united them—two princesses, one father’s daughters. Soon, Natalie married and moved away, but they kept in touch, calling on birthdays and holidays.
“I had a son. I named him after Dad—Victor. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” Irina lied.
She’d wanted to name her own son Victor. Always one step ahead, that Natalie. But she laughed it off later. Life was too short for grudges. Some things couldn’t be changed, but forgiveness could. Family mattered—even the messy, imperfect kind.
In the end, they all learned that.
