The Other Daughter
Irene’s father was fifteen years older than her mother. He dressed formally, almost old-fashioned—always trousers, a shirt, a blazer or a jumper. No trainers, no T-shirts. He wasn’t like her friends’ dads. Irene adored him. When he came home from work, she’d run to meet him, and he’d scoop her up, look into her eyes, and ask,
*How was my princess’s day?*
She loved when he called her that. She’d hug him tight and breathe 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.
*What about me? Aren’t I a princess?* her mother would tease, pretending to pout for her share of compliments. Her father would hold Irene with one arm and hug her mother with the other, kissing her cheek.
*You’re both my favourite princesses.*
It was a game they played every day, and Irene never tired of it.
As she got older, the game faded. She still greeted him when he came home, but no more squealing, no more 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 pick her up like a child anymore, but… why wouldn’t he look at her? Why didn’t he call her *princess* now?
*Late at work again?*
*Yeah. What can I do? It’s the job.*
*What job?*
*I’m a supervisor, small-time but still.* He smoothed his hair and walked past her into the living room. She could tell he was lying. He wasn’t at work. Supervisor of an appliance repair shop? Sure, sometimes a customer needed a fridge or hoover fixed urgently, but people rarely paid double to rush a repair. They’d wait to save money. Yet lately, he was always *working late*—no flowers, no excuses. Even on weekends, he’d disappear for hours, coming back quiet and distant. Something was off.
That evening, same as usual.
*Hi. How was school? Mum home?*
He wasn’t really asking. Just filling silence. She didn’t answer. They say even girls have intuition, and hers screamed that something was wrong. Her parents weren’t fighting, but they weren’t laughing either. Stiff conversations, red-rimmed eyes when her mother thought she wasn’t looking.
And his smell—it was different on those *late* nights. Guilty. Tense. The flat buzzed with unease. She tried talking to her mum.
*People get tired of each other sometimes. But if they love each other, it passes.*
*And if they don’t?*
*Then they separate. Try to be happy with someone else. Doesn’t always work.*
*Do you and Dad still love each other?*
*That’s too complicated. Not everything has a simple answer.*
So they *were* tired of each other. But what did that mean for her? Did they stop loving her too? Would they divorce? Too many questions, no answers.
That summer, they didn’t go on holiday. Dad *worked*. Mum and Irene went to Gran’s in Kent. He didn’t visit on weekends like he used to. One night, Irene overheard Gran scolding Mum.
*You left him alone in the city? The marriage is hanging by a thread, and you just let him run free?*
*Mum, please. I won’t chain him to me. Whatever happens, happens.*
*Fool. Men like him don’t grow on trees. For Irene’s sake, at least try!*
*What are you talking about? Is Dad leaving?* Irene burst in.
*Eavesdropping? Stay out of grown-up business! We’re just talking about a TV show.*
*Right. A show. I’m not stupid.*
*Go. Don’t interfere.*
*I’m not a kid. I understand.*
*Then act like it and let them sort it out.*
Two weeks later, Dad came to take them home. Irene was thrilled; Mum even dressed up. But the air between them crackled. Small talk, one-word answers. The tension grew.
December was Irene’s favourite—her birthday, then Christmas. One afternoon, she went to the cinema with friends. They left laughing, quoting the funniest scenes. Snow fell, lights glittered on the high street.
*Let’s get ice cream!* one friend said.
*In this cold? You’ll get sick before the Christmas dance!*
They teased her, giggling—until Irene saw him.
Her father.
Next to a girl her age.
*Hide me,* she whispered, ducking behind her friend.
*What—?*
*Stop moving!*
He walked past without noticing.
*That’s your dad!* her friend hissed. *Who’s that?*
Irene trailed them, heart hammering. No mistake—his coat, his profile. The girl laughed at something he said. Were they just at the cinema? Who was she?
They boarded a bus. She missed it.
At home, she festered in questions. Too many secrets. If no one would talk, she’d find out herself. She’d ask him—and he *would* answer.
But she fell ill—fever, sore throat. By the time she recovered, he was gone.
Mum refused to explain. *Not now. Later.*
So Irene went to his work. Waited outside.
*Hi, Dad.*
*Irene? What— Is Mum okay?*
*Fine. I came to see you.*
He looked older, greyer, his coat hanging loose. But he smiled.
They sat in a café. He ordered her favourite cake.
*How’s school? You’ve grown.*
*If I’m grown up, then answer me. Why did you leave?*
He shrank, staring at the tablecloth.
*Look…*
*Just say it. I deserve to know. Did you leave us for someone else?*
*You *are* grown up. I didn’t leave. Mum asked me to go. Said it was best.* He twisted his teaspoon. *Before your mum, there was someone else. Brief, nothing serious. Then I met your mum, forgot all about her. But… she came back. Showed up at work, sick. Said she had a daughter. Mine. She was dying—wanted me to care for the girl.*
*That was your daughter? I saw you with her before Christmas.*
*You saw us? Yes, that’s Natasha. I took her to the cinema. Her mum… wasn’t well. I wanted to distract her.*
*Are you sure she’s yours?*
*People don’t lie before they die.* He sighed. *After her mum passed, I told your mother. Confessed. Asked if Natasha could live with us. But your mum said no. Worried you wouldn’t understand. So she told me to go.*
*Why didn’t you talk to me?*
*Too ashamed. Would you have forgiven me?*
*I don’t know.* She stood. *I need to think.*
He didn’t stop her.
The hurt swallowed her. They’d decided everything without her. If he’d just *talked* to her, maybe she’d have understood. Maybe she’d have even liked having a sister.
*Another daughter. A sister. Another princess?*
At home, she told Mum everything.
*I knew you’d find out. How is he?*
*Not great. Older. Thinner. He said he only ever loved you. That her mum never told him about the girl.*
*Bad?* Mum whispered, staring out the window.
*Why did you make him leave? I love him too! He’s my father, and you just gave him away to some other girl! Now everyone’s miserable—except her! I hate you!*
The words spilled out before she could stop them.
Mum flinched. Tears fell.
*Mum, I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—*
She hugged her, sobbing.
*I haven’t lived since he left,* Mum admitted.
*Then let’s go to him! Now!*
*Now?*
*Yes!*
Mum hesitated, flustered. *What if he doesn’t want to see me?*
*You’re both ridiculous. Talk. And I want to meet my sister.*
Natasha was a year older. Polite, quiet. Her mum had been an accountant, so she’d gone to college for it too.
Her parents talked—no accusations, just words long overdue. But for now, things stayed as they were.
Three years later, he died.
The sisters only grew close after the funeral. Grief united them—two princesses, one father. Soon, Natasha married and moved away, but they called sometimes, sent birthday and Christmas cards.
*I had a baby boy! Named him Victor, after Dad. You don’t mindShe smiled, looking at the future ahead, knowing that despite the messiness and the heartache, love and forgiveness had finally woven their fractured family back together, each thread a little stronger for having been broken and mended.
