Irina’s dad was fifteen years older than her mum. He dressed strictly, even old-fashioned—always in trousers, a shirt, a jacket, or a jumper. No trainers or T-shirts for him. He wasn’t like her friends’ dads at all. And Irina adored him. When he came home from work, she’d run to him, and he’d scoop her up in his arms, looking into her eyes and asking, *”How was my princess’s day?”*
She loved when he called her that. She’d bury her face in his neck, breathing in that one-of-a-kind smell—the best smell in the world, the smell of happiness. A mix of cologne, cigarettes, and something else she couldn’t name.
*”And what about me? Aren’t I a princess?”* her mum would joke, puffing out her lip playfully, fishing for her own compliment. Dad would hold Irina with one arm and wrap the other around Mum, kissing her cheek. *”You’re both my favourite princesses.”*
Irina loved this little game, the one they played every single day.
But as she got older, the game faded. She still went to greet him when he came home, but no more squealing, no more puppy-like joy—just a quiet, *”Hi, Dad.”*
*”Hi,”* he’d answer, hanging up his coat or jacket without looking at her.
Fine, she didn’t want him to pick her up like a little kid anymore, but why wouldn’t he look her in the eye? Why didn’t he call her *princess*?
*”Late again?”* she asked.
*”Work’s just like that.”*
*”Like what?”*
*”I’m the boss—small-time, but still.”* He smoothed his hair and walked past her into the living room. Irina knew he was lying. *Boss* of an appliance repair shop—big deal. Sure, sometimes a customer needed a fridge or a hoover fixed ASAP, but people willing to pay double for rush jobs weren’t exactly common. Lately, though, he was always “working late,” coming home without flowers, disappearing for hours on weekends. He’d return quiet, lost in thought. Something was wrong.
This time was no different.
*”Hi. How’s school? Mum home?”*
He asked the usual questions, but his eyes were fixed somewhere past her. Irina didn’t answer—she knew he wasn’t really listening. People said even little girls had intuition, and hers screamed that something had changed. Mum’s eyes were red lately. They weren’t yelling (not in front of her, at least), but the jokes were gone, the conversations forced.
And Dad smelled different—on the days he *”worked late.”* Guilty. Unhappy. The flat felt heavy, like the air before a storm.
She tried talking to Mum.
*”People go through tough patches, love. If they care, they get through it,”* Mum said, sounding tired.
*”And if they don’t?”*
*”Then they split up. Try to be happy with someone else. Doesn’t always work.”*
*”Do you and Dad still love each other?”*
*”That’s too big a question, sweetheart. Not everything has a straight answer.”*
So they *were* tired of each other. But what did that mean for her? Did they stop loving her too? Were they getting divorced? Too many questions, no answers.
That summer, they didn’t go to the seaside. Dad *”had work”*, so Mum and Irina stayed at Grandma’s. Dad didn’t visit like he used to. One night, Irina overheard Grandma scolding Mum. *”You left him alone in the city? That’s just asking for trouble!”*
*”Mum, please. I can’t chain him to me. Whatever happens, happens.”*
*”You’re a fool. Men like him don’t grow on trees. For Irina’s sake, you should’ve—”*
*”Gran, what are you talking about? Is Dad leaving us?”* Irina burst into the kitchen.
*”Eavesdropping? Stay out of grown-up business! We’re just talking about a telly show.”*
*”Right. A *telly show*. I’m not stupid.”*
He *did* come to get them two weeks later. Mum brightened up—fixed her hair, put on a nice dress. But the air between them still crackled. Mum asked small questions; Dad answered in grunts. Every day got worse.
Irina loved December—her birthday, then New Year’s. One afternoon, she and her mates went to the cinema, laughing all the way home. Snow fell, lights glowed, the square’s massive tree twinkling.
*”Don’t wanna go home yet. Fancy ice cream?”* Sarah asked.
*”In this weather? You’ll be ill, and then Josh will dance with Emily at the New Year’s party.”* The girls giggled—teasing Sarah over her crush, though secretly jealous. None of them had boyfriends yet.
Sarah huffed, about to leave, when Irina spotted Dad. She froze. Then she saw the girl beside him—about her age.
*”Hide me,”* she hissed, ducking behind Sarah.
Dad and the girl passed without noticing.
*”That’s your dad!”* Rachel whispered. *”Who’s that with him?”*
Irina watched them go, then rushed after them. Maybe she was wrong? No—that was *his* coat. He leaned down, said something, and Irina saw his profile. *Definitely* him. Had they been at the cinema too? Who *was* she?
They boarded a bus before Irina could follow. She walked home, her stomach twisting.
Too many secrets. If no one would tell her the truth, she’d find out herself. She’d ask him, and he *better* answer.
But she never got the chance. That night, she spiked a fever, throat burning. By the time she recovered, Dad had moved out. Mum refused to explain. *”Not now. Later.”*
Fine. She’d go to him.
She waited outside his work. When he stepped out, she approached.
*”Hi, Dad.”*
*”Irina? What’s wrong? Is Mum—?”* He looked shaken.
*”Mum’s fine. I came to see *you*.”*
He’d aged—hair greyer, shoulders slumped, his coat hanging loose. But he smiled when he saw her.
They sat in a café. He ordered her favourite cake and tea.
*”How’s school? You’ve grown up so much.”*
*”If I’m grown up, tell me why you left.”*
He stared at the tablecloth.
*”Mum asked me to leave. Said it was best. There was… someone before her. Nothing serious. Then I met your mum, forgot the other woman existed. But years later, she came back—ill. Said she had a daughter. *Mine*.”* He fiddled with his spoon. *”When she died, I told Mum. I had to take the girl in. Mum refused. Worried about *you*—how you’d take it. She told me to go.”*
*”Why didn’t you *talk* to me?”*
*”I… don’t know. Would you have forgiven me?”*
*”I don’t know. But you should’ve tried.”* She stood. *”I need time.”*
He let her leave.
Anger swelled. *They* made the choices—her feelings didn’t matter. If he’d *talked* to her, maybe she’d have understood. Maybe met this sister, even liked her.
*(Sister. Another princess? Too many, maybe.)*
At home, she told Mum everything.
*”I knew you’d find out,”* Mum said softly. *”How is he?”*
Irina understood—she wasn’t asking about the girl.
*”Not great. Older. Thinner. He said he never stopped loving you. That the other woman never told him about the baby.”*
Mum exhaled, staring out the window.
*”Why did you send him away? I love him too! You gave him to some other girl—is she *better* than me? Now *everyone’s* miserable—you, me, him. Only *she’s* happy because *she’s* got a dad. I *hate* you!”*
The words spilled out before she could stop them.
Mum flinched. Tears fell.
*”Mum… I’m *sorry*. I didn’t mean…”* Irina threw her arms around her, sobbing.
Mum whispered, *”I haven’t *lived* since he left.”*
*”Then let’s go get him. *Now*.”*
Mum blinked. *”Right now?”*
*”Yes!”*
Mum scrambled up, grabbed her coat—then paused. *They went to him that evening, and though it wasn’t perfect—nothing ever is—they finally began to mend what had been broken, piece by piece.
