Lucy never felt guilty for merely being born. Yet the weight of how she came into this world pressed upon her shoulders with such force that sometimes she wished to vanish. Her existence wasn’t a mistake—it was passion. A fleeting moment her father had desperately tried to hide from everyone. Especially from his family.
Her mother had been a young, naive university student when she fell into a brief, almost innocent affair with her professor at Oxford. He was married, already had a daughter—Claire. A seemingly happy family. Stability. Framed photos on the wall, signed anniversary cards. And Lucy’s mother? Just an episode. But an episode that altered everything.
Lucy never truly knew her father. Only those rare visits when he appeared with a bag full of sweets and new books. They’d stroll through Hyde Park, where he always kept a careful distance, though he couldn’t hide the warmth in his eyes. She remembered one time—just once—when they crossed paths with him and Claire. That day, she’d let herself believe it could all be different. That “Dad” wasn’t a secret, but someone whose hand she could hold without hiding.
It was an illusion. She was called “the product of passion.” He’d said it himself—not to her, but to her mother. That he couldn’t upend his family. That he had Claire, and a wife, and everything settled. Yet he couldn’t abandon Lucy entirely. So she lived in the shadows. On the fringes of his life, like an afterthought in a photograph.
When Lucy attended her father’s funeral, she stood apart. An observer. Claire wept, her mother held herself together—but Lucy stayed silent. Inside, everything burned. She studied Claire’s face, searching for the same features she saw in her own mirror. They shared a father. But Claire had all of him. Lucy had only stolen moments.
She knew about the flat in the will. The one—his childhood home. He’d left it to her. Not to Claire’s mother. Not to Claire—just her. And in that gesture, everything was said. The acknowledgement she’d waited for. Too late. Unspoken. Yet immeasurably important.
At the reading of the will, the air hummed with tension. Eyes scorched her. Lucy sat like she was on fire. Claire stared as if she hadn’t come to the solicitor’s office, but to steal a life. Her gaze held everything—confusion, rage, pain. Lucy wanted to say, “It’s not about the flat. It’s about belonging. About finally being *something*.”
But she didn’t. Because she knew—in that other family, they wouldn’t understand. They hadn’t waited for her. Hadn’t called her. Hadn’t wanted her.
That evening, she sat in the small, untouched flat he’d left her. A cold cup of tea sat on the windowsill. The air smelled of dust and something nostalgic. Lucy remembered the day he’d come in the rain. Soaked, frustrated, exhausted—but with chocolates and a new book. He’d sat beside her in silence, just stroking her hair. No words. Just warmth. For that moment, she’d felt like a daughter.
Now, all of it was gone. And a future with his family? Impossible. Lucy knew Claire would never accept her. And Claire’s mother? Even less so. She understood. Who wanted to share grief? Love? Even resentment?
But she couldn’t refuse. Not the flat. Not that sliver of recognition. It wasn’t greed. It was the right to exist.
Lucy knew—she’d always be the outsider. But maybe, someday, Claire would understand: she hadn’t chosen this either. She hadn’t asked to be born in the shadows.
And maybe, just once, if they passed each other on the street, Claire would nod—without anger, without blame. Just human. And Lucy would say,
“Hello. We—we look a bit alike, don’t we?”
If that ever happened, she’d know—none of it was for nothing. That for just a second, she wouldn’t be “the product of passion.”
She’d be a daughter. Finally.
