STEPFATHER.
From a young age, Emily knew her mother had “brought her home in her apron.” The kind but nosy neighbours who seemed to live on the bench outside their building had filled her in.
Emily pictured it—her petite, delicate mum, Lucy, carrying her in the folds of a holiday dress, a baby Emily who’d appeared out of nowhere.
“That’s why you don’t have a dad!” declared Marina, the girl who lived in the flat above theirs, with an air of superiority. “You’re fatherless!”
“What does that mean?” Emily frowned.
“Just what I said! Your mum had you without being married! You’ve got no dad! I’ve got one!” Marina puffed out her chest proudly.
“So what?” Emily shot back. “I’ve got my grandma and grandad! You don’t.”
“Ha! Grandparents don’t count! A woman needs a man, or she’s not proper! That’s what my mum says!”
That evening, after dinner, Emily curled up beside her mum on the sofa, as they always did—their little ritual of winding down together. Lucy was always crafting something—knitting, sewing, embroidering—and Emily, watching her, picked up hobbies of her own: beading bracelets, arranging diamond art mosaics, or shaping little animals from clay.
“Mum,” Emily asked, listening to the usual racket from upstairs, “do I really need a dad?”
The nightly “performance,” as Emily’s gran, Polly, called it, was kicking off. Marina’s dad, Uncle Alex, was at it again. The noise told them everything—if only his voice boomed while the women whimpered, he’d been drinking. If the shouting came from both sides, he was sober and furious about it.
“Well, since we’ve managed just fine without one, I’d say no,” Lucy said, stroking Emily’s hair and glancing upward.
“But Marina says a woman without a man isn’t proper…”
“Sweetheart, everyone has their own way of coping. Look at us—are we doing badly?”
“No,” Emily shook her head. They really weren’t. Lucy worked as an accountant at a big firm, earning enough for them to enjoy weekends out—cafés, cinemas, the park—and holidays by the sea. Every winter, they visited Aunt Julie, Lucy’s childhood friend, whose husband built the kids a huge ice slide in the garden.
Upstairs, the “performance” escalated. Alex’s swearing echoed through the building. Half an hour later, Lucy sighed and headed to the hall—the finale was near. A door slammed, footsteps thudded, and in rushed Aunt Kate with Marina.
“Lock it!” Kate shrieked, though Lucy was already moving. A fist pounded the door.
“Lucy! Open up!” a drunken voice roared. “Open or I’ll break it down! Where’s that—? I’ll snap her legs!”
“Leave, or I’ll call the police,” Lucy replied calmly. She’d done it before. He had one warning left—next time, jail.
“Don’t, Luce!” Kate begged. “They’ll lock him up!”
“Good.” Lucy walked to the kitchen to put the kettle on.
“You can’t be serious! What’ll you do without a man?” Kate trailed after her, her dressing gown torn, hair wild, a bruise blooming under her eye.
“I’m not alone, Kate. I’ve got Emily. And no bruises. And I don’t sleep at the neighbours’.”
“Nothing to brag about!” Kate scoffed. “Your girl’s growing up fatherless! Who knows how she’ll turn out without a man’s guidance? And bruises—if he hits you, he loves you! Couples fight! We’ll make up tomorrow, and he’ll be sweet as pie! You’ll just lie there alone in your cold bed!”
Lucy shook her head. Same excuses, every time.
When Emily started school, Uncle Vincent appeared. He was quiet, stocky, and steady. At first, Emily worried Lucy would forget her—Marina had “enlightened” her.
“Think he’ll be your dad? Ha! You’re not his! Men don’t want other men’s kids. He’ll knock your mum up, and you’ll be booted out!”
“Marina!” Alex bellowed from the balcony. “Get inside! Dishes aren’t done, house is a mess! Want your mum slaving after work?”
Unemployed and drunk by noon, Alex had been at it for weeks. Marina scurried inside.
But Vincent, contrary to Marina’s prediction, was lovely to Emily. He worked as an engineer where Lucy did. His big, shiny car now took them on their weekend trips—cafés, cinemas, holidays. He played with Emily, bought her toys and pretty dresses, stood up to bullies, and joined their cosy sofa evenings, watching “his girls” craft.
When he and Lucy married in a small restaurant, Vincent crouched to Emily’s level.
“You can call me Dad,” he said. She did, joyfully—until Kate heard.
“Dad? He’s your stepdad! Your mum’s got a husband, but you’ve still got no dad!”
Kate hated Vincent. Once he moved in, her refuge vanished.
“Kate, you’ve got your own flat—sleep there. Or a hotel. This isn’t a shelter,” Vincent said coolly when she banged on their door, fleeing Alex.
“Who d’you think you are?” she screeched. “I’ll get my husband! He’ll put you in your place!”
“Why wait?” Vincent crossed his arms as Alex stumbled over.
Alex lunged. Vincent didn’t flinch—one shove sent him sprawling.
“Murderer!” Kate wailed, then hissed, “I’ll have you arrested!”
“Quieter, please,” Vincent said. “People are trying to sleep.”
A few more attempts to resume their old chaos failed. The building grew to respect—and fear—Vincent. The bench gossips fell silent when his car pulled up, offering stiff smiles.
“Good evening, Mr. Vincent!”
Only Emily paid no mind, sprinting across the yard.
“Daddy’s home!” she’d cry, leaping into his arms. His stern face melted as he carried her inside.
“He’s not your dad!” Marina would snarl.
“You know,” Emily said one day, eyeing her friend’s worn dress and faded backpack as they left school, “he may not be my real father, but he’s never shouted at me, always cared for me, protected me. He loves me and Mum and does everything to make us happy.”
She paused. “What has your real dad ever done for you?”
