Hey, so I’ve got this story I’ve tweaked to fit English culture—changed names, places, all that. Here’s how it goes:
“Who’s my real dad?”
“Emily, wanna go to the cinema on Sunday?”
“Dunno. Mum won’t let me out in the evenings. Maybe in the afternoon.”
“We’ll go in the afternoon then. I’ll get the tickets?” Jake asked hopefully.
Emily glanced up at the third-floor windows. Had she just caught a glimpse of her mum’s face watching her? Her mood soured instantly. She grabbed her bag from Jake and took a step back.
“Alright, I’d better go. See you tomorrow,” she muttered, hurrying toward the building.
“Always watching me like I’m some criminal. All me mates get to hang out with lads, but I’m stuck with daylight hours. Everyone’s got normal parents, except me…” she fumed, stomping up the stairs.
Inside the flat, she toed off her shoes, careful not to make noise. She flicked off the hallway light and slipped past her mum’s room.
“Fancy some dinner?” her mum called just as Emily touched her bedroom doorknob.
Emily rolled her eyes and turned. “What if I say no?” she shot back.
“Why d’you always have to be like this?”
“Why d’you always spy on me?” Emily countered.
“I wasn’t spying. Just glanced out the window,” her mum said calmly.
“Oh, sure. Never notice you peeking when I’m stuck indoors,” Emily sneered. “Got loads of revision. Night.” She slammed the door behind her, flicked on the light, and counted under her breath: “One, two, three…”
Usually, by five, her mum would burst in, ranting about disrespect and how Emily was out of control. One more stunt like this, one more slammed door…
But she reached ten, and nothing. Weird. Emily changed, pulled out her books, and slumped at her desk. She was starving, but no way was she facing the third degree over dinner. She’d sit there while Mum grilled her, and then she’d snap—what else could she do? Footsteps paused outside her door. Emily hunched over her book, pretending to study. “Here we go.”
Her mum stepped in. “Mind if I come in?”
That was new. No barging, no yelling.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” her mum said, perching on the edge of the bed.
Emily pretended to read, but her eyes didn’t focus. She braced herself.
“A woman rang… she lived with your dad. Said he’s passed. Funeral’s tomorrow.” Her mum spoke flatly, pausing between sentences—uncharacteristically measured.
“How?” Emily’s head snapped up.
“Heart attack. If you’re coming, wear something dark.”
“That’s it? That’s how you say it? ‘Wear something dark’?” Emily shoved her chair back, scraping the laminate. “Listen to yourself! My dad’s dead, and you’re talking like it’s the weather!”
“You’re impossible,” her mum sighed, standing. “He left us, remember?”
“Because you never loved him!” Emily’s voice cracked.
“Don’t shout. You don’t know what you’re on about.”
“I do! He told me before he left. Said you never cared. Why’d you even marry him? Should’ve left us alone—he loved me, unlike you!” She collapsed onto the desk, sobbing.
When her mum touched her shoulder, Emily jerked away.
“I’ll call the school tomorrow, say you’ll be absent,” her mum said quietly, then left.
Once cried out, Emily dug out the photo album from her drawer. There were few pictures of them all together, but one showed her dad smiling, her holding a candyfloss stick. She pulled it free, tracing his face as fresh tears fell.
***
He’d left when Emily was in Year 6. No shouting matches, no warning—just gone. Her parents barely spoke, no jokes, no kisses like her mate’s folks.
“Dad, are you really leaving us?” she’d asked when he met her after school once.
“I can’t stay. Your mum doesn’t love me. I’ve tried.”
“I love you,” Emily blurted.
“Love you too.” He ruffled her hair. “You’ll understand when you’re older. Listen to your mum.” He walked her home but didn’t come in.
“Dad!” she called after him. He didn’t turn.
“He’s got another woman,” her mum later said.
“Kids?”
“Dunno. Probably.”
***
“Emily, wake up.” Her mum’s voice cut through her sleep. “We need to leave for the mortuary soon.”
The word “mortuary” jolted her upright. She pawed at the bedsheets.
“Looking for this?” Her mum held up the photo now propped by her monitor. “Hurry, or we’ll be late.”
In the kitchen, her mum sipped coffee while Emily stared out the window, appetite gone. At the mortuary, few people lingered. A plump woman sniffled by the coffin—the caller, Emily guessed.
She trembled. The man in the coffin didn’t look like her dad. She focused on his framed photo instead. Her mum stood dry-eyed, detached, like it was a stranger’s funeral.
At the cemetery, chatter floated behind them: pity for “Nina,” left childless, hushed comments about her and her mum. Cold seeped into Emily’s bones as dirt hit the coffin. Everyone cried—except her mum.
Back home over tea, Emily couldn’t resist: “Couldn’t you even fake it? No wonder Dad left.” She fled to her room.
Dusk painted the walls when her mum sat at the foot of the bed. Emily feigned sleep.
“The man we buried today wasn’t your father.”
Emily rolled over. “Making it up now to make me feel better?”
“He asked me not to tell you. But now… I want you to know.”
“Who is my dad, then?”
Her mum sighed. “I was in Year 11. Fell for an older boy. When he got drafted, I told him I’d wait—like some stupid romance. He… took advantage. Got pregnant. Gran refused a termination. We moved flats to avoid gossip.”
“The boy? Did he marry you?”
“When he got back, Gran confronted him. He denied everything, said I’d pinned it on him. Had a fiancée.” Her mum’s voice hollowed. “Later, I met Michael. Didn’t love him, but Gran pushed me—‘a child needs a father.’ He tried, but I couldn’t… love him back. That’s why he left.”
Emily swallowed. “Where’s my real dad now?”
“Why?”
“I want to see him. Look him in the eye.”
“Think he’ll care? He denied you existed. Has his own family.”
Now Emily understood the distance, the rules.
***
That weekend, Jake rang about the cinema. They walked through town, freezing, and ducked into a café.
“Turns out I had two dads. And neither wanted me,” Emily mumbled, stirring her coffee.
“Maybe your mum told you so you’d decide who counts. Or neither. You’ve got her.”
“She hates me. Says I remind her of him.”
“You’re just lost. Stop picking a dad—you’re not a kid. Whoever raised you, that’s what matters.”
“Easy for you,” Emily sighed.
“Is it? Some don’t know their parents at all. You’ve got options. Finish school, have your own family. Who cares about the past?”
Outside, leaden clouds promised snow. “D’you wanna go home?” Jake asked.
“Not yet. Let’s just… walk.”
Teenagers, eh? Everything’s a tragedy till life straightens it out. Every little pain is a whole storm unless you find a way to ride it through.
And eventually, you do.
