Lottie had known since she was little that her mum had “brought her in an apron,” as the nosey neighbours liked to say. They were always perched on the bench by the front door, whispering gossip. Lottie used to imagine her petite, gentle mum, Lucy, carrying her in the folds of a party dress, appearing out of nowhere.
“That’s because you don’t have a dad!” declared Marigold, the girl who lived upstairs, with all the wisdom of a nine-year-old. “You’re fatherless!”
“What does that mean?” Lottie asked.
“It means your mum had you with just anyone!” Marigold scoffed. “You’ve got no proper dad! I’ve got one!”
“So what?” Lottie shrugged. “I’ve got grandparents. You don’t.”
Marigold huffed. “Grandparents don’t count! A woman needs a man! Without one, she’s nothing! That’s what my mum says!”
That evening, after dinner, Lottie curled up beside her mum on the sofa. It was their ritual—sitting together, chatting while Lucy knitted or sewed, and Lottie crafted bracelets or painted.
“Mum,” Lottie asked, watching the ceiling shake as the nightly shouting match started upstairs, “do you really need a dad?”
Lucy smiled, smoothing her daughter’s hair. “If we’re happy without one, then no, you don’t.”
“But Marigold says a woman isn’t proper without a man.”
“Darling, some people need to put others down to feel better. Are we happy?”
Lottie nodded. They were. Lucy worked as an accountant, earning enough for weekends at cafés, cinemas, and trips to the seaside every summer. Every New Year, they visited Auntie Jo in the countryside, where her husband built ice slides for the kids.
Upstairs, the yelling escalated. The usual slurs and crashes echoed through the flat. After half an hour, Lucy sighed and headed to the door just as Marigold and her mum, Kitty, came tumbling in.
“Lock it!” Kitty shrieked.
Lucy barely had time before fists pounded on the door.
“Open up, Lucy!” roared a drunken voice. “Or I’ll smash it down! Where’s that little—”
“If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police,” Lucy said calmly. She’d done it before.
“Don’t!” Kitty wailed. “They’ll arrest him!”
“Good,” Lucy said, heading to the kettle.
Kitty trailed after her. “How can you live without a man?”
Lucy paused, taking in Kitty’s torn dressing gown, wild hair, and the bruise forming under her eye. “I’m not alone. I’ve got Lottie. No bruises. And I don’t sleep on sofas.”
Kitty sniffed. “Your girl’s growing up wild without a father! And bruises? Means he loves you! We fight today—tomorrow he’ll be sweet as pie! You’ll just be alone in your cold bed!”
Lottie started school when Uncle Vince entered their lives. He was quiet, steady, and kind—nothing like Marigold’s warnings.
“He’ll never be your dad!” Marigold sneered. “Men don’t want other men’s kids. He’ll get your mum pregnant and dump you in an orphanage!”
But Vince proved her wrong. He played with Lottie, bought her dresses, and defended her from bullies. When he and Lucy married in a small pub gathering, he knelt beside Lottie.
“You can call me Dad,” he said.
Lottie beamed. But Kitty cackled.
“Stepdad, more like! He’s your mum’s husband, not your father!”
Kitty hated Vince. The moment he moved in, her refuge vanished.
“You’ve got your own flat,” Vince said firmly when she banged on their door one night. “Go home.”
Kitty screeched, “Who do you think you are?”
Her drunken husband, Alfie, charged at Vince—only to land flat on his back.
“You’ll pay for this!” Kitty screamed.
Vince just folded his arms. “Keep it down. People are trying to sleep.”
After a few failed attempts to reclaim their chaotic routine, Alfie and Kitty gave up. The neighbours started greeting Vince with nervous respect—except Lottie, who’d sprint across the yard, yelling, “Daddy’s home!” and leap into his arms.
Years later, Lottie glanced at Marigold—still in tatty clothes, still bitter.
“Maybe he’s not my blood,” she said softly, “but he’s never shouted at me, always cared for me, and loves Mum more than anything. What has your *real* dad ever done for you?”
