**Who’s My Father?**
“Emma, want to go to the cinema on Sunday?”
“I don’t know. Mum won’t let me out in the evenings—only during the day.”
“Let’s go in the afternoon then. I’ll get the tickets?” James asked hopefully.
Emma glanced up at the third-floor windows. Had she just seen her mother’s face flicker behind the glass? Her mood soured instantly. She took her bag from James and stepped back.
“Fine, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow.” She hurried toward the building entrance.
*”Always watching me like I’ve done something wrong. All the others get to go out with boys in the evening, and I’m stuck with daylight hours. Everyone else has normal parents, but mine…”* Irritated, Emma climbed the stairs to the flat, trying not to stomp.
Inside, she slipped off her coat, killed the hall light, and tiptoed past her mother’s door.
“Hungry?” Her mum’s voice caught her just as she touched her bedroom doorknob.
Emma rolled her eyes and turned. “What if I said no?”
“Why are you being like this?”
“Why are you always spying on me?” Emma shot back.
“I wasn’t spying. I just looked out the window.”
“Yeah, right. Funny how you never glance outside when I’m actually home,” Emma muttered. “Got loads to study.” She slammed the door behind her, flicked on the lamp, and counted silently: *One, two, three…*
Usually, by five, her mum would burst in, scolding her for disrespect, calling her uncontrollable and rude. One more outburst, one more door slammed in her face, and—
Emma reached ten. No sign of her mother. Odd. She changed, pulled out her books, and sat at her desk. Hunger gnawed at her, but eating meant another interrogation over the kitchen table. How could she *not* snap?
Footsteps paused outside her door. Emma hunched over her textbook, pretending to read. *Here it comes.*
The door creaked open. “Am I interrupting?”
That was new. Apologies weren’t her mum’s style—she usually barged in.
“I need to tell you something.” Her mum sat on the edge of the bed, voice steady but oddly hesitant.
Emma kept up the charade of reading, but her eyes skimmed nothing, nerves coiled tight.
“A woman called… Your father lived with her. She said he’s passed. The funeral’s tomorrow.” Her words were measured, each phrase spaced apart—uncharacteristically careful.
“How?” Emma’s head jerked up.
“Heart attack. If you come, wear something dark.”
“You’re saying this like it’s nothing!” Emma shoved back her chair, the legs screeching against the laminate. “Do you even hear yourself? *‘Wear something dark’*—as if he were some stranger!”
Her mum sighed. “Impossible to talk to you. He left *us*, remember?”
“Because *you* didn’t love him!” Emma’s throat burned.
“Don’t shout about things you don’t understand.”
“I *do*. Dad told me before he left. He said you never loved him. Why’d you even marry him? Should’ve left us alone. *He* loved me—unlike you!” Her voice cracked. She collapsed at the desk, face buried in her hands, sobbing.
A touch on her shoulder. She flinched away.
“I’ll call the school tomorrow, say you’ll be absent.” Her mum left without another word.
Exhausted, Emma dug out an old photo album from the drawer. There, tucked between pages: a rare shot of her and Dad, grinning, her clutching a swirl of candyfloss. She yanked it free, tracing his smile through tears.
—
Her father had left when Emma was in Year 6. No fights, no warning—just silence, then gone. Unlike her friend’s parents, hers never joked, never kissed. Just coexisted.
“Dad, are you really leaving us?” she’d asked when he met her after school.
“I can’t stay. Your mum doesn’t love me. I’ve tried.”
“I love you,” she’d whispered.
“I know. You’ll understand when you’re older. Listen to your mum.” He’d walked her home but didn’t come inside.
“Dad!” she’d called after him. He never turned.
“He’s with someone else,” her mum later said.
“Does he have kids?”
“Probably.”
—
“Emma, wake up.” Her mum’s voice cut through her grogginess. “We need to leave for the funeral home.”
The word *funeral* snapped her awake. She groped the bedsheets.
“Looking for this?” Her mum held up the photo now propped on her desk. “Hurry.”
Dressed in black jeans and a jumper, Emma sat numbly at the kitchen table while her mum sipped coffee. The mug clinked as it hit the sink.
“Ready? Let’s go.”
The funeral home was sparse with mourners—none Emma knew. A stout woman wept by the coffin, dabbing her eyes. *Her*, then. The one who’d called.
Emma shivered. The man in the casket didn’t look like her dad. She fixed on his framed photo instead. Her mum stood dry-eyed, detached, as if this were someone else’s grief.
At the cemetery, sleet needled their faces. When dirt thudded on the coffin, the crowd wept—except her mum.
Back home, Emma huddled under a blanket, pretending to sleep as dusk bled into the room. Her mum sat at the foot of the bed.
“The man we buried today wasn’t your father.”
Emma bolted upright. “Are you *lying* to make me feel better?”
“He asked me never to tell you. Treated you as his own. But now… You deserve to know.”
“Then *who* is?”
Her mum exhaled. “I was in Year 11. Met a boy a year older. When he got drafted for National Service, I—stupidly—told him I’d wait. Romantic nonsense.” A bitter laugh. “He took advantage. I fought, but he was stronger. And drunk.”
A pause. “Then I was pregnant. My mother refused an abortion. *‘He’ll come back,’* she said. We moved flats to avoid gossip. I finished school at home. Had you.”
“The boy?”
“Denied you existed. Said I was pinning it on him. He married someone else.”
Emma’s stomach twisted. “So Dad—*not* Dad—left because…?”
“Because I couldn’t love him. And you—you look *so much* like your real father. It’s hard for me.”
Emma finally understood the distance, the curfews.
That Saturday, James called about the cinema. They ended up in a café, Emma spilling the truth between stabs at her cooling tea.
“Two fathers, but neither *really* mine. One didn’t want me, the other walked away. Why’d she even tell me?”
“To let you choose. Or not. You’ve still got your mum.”
“She *hates* me. Says I remind her of *him*.”
“You’re just lost right now. But you’re not little anymore. Who raised you? That’s your dad.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Life’s messy. Some never meet their parents. You? Got a mum who worries. That’s love, even if it’s tangled.”
They left as snow threatened.
*Teen years twist everything. What’s distant seems perfect; what’s close feels broken. But time untangles it—reshapes understanding, softens grudges. The point isn’t the mess. It’s learning who you are despite it.*
