“Who is my father?”
“Tamsin, do you fancy catching the cinema on Sunday?”
“Not sure. Mum won’t let me out in the evenings. Maybe in the afternoon.”
“We’ll go in the afternoon, then. Shall I get the tickets?” Oliver asked hopefully.
Tamsin lifted her gaze toward the third-floor window. Had she imagined it, or had her mother’s face flickered there? Her mood soured instantly. She snatched her bag from Oliver and took a step back.
“Fine, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hurried toward the building.
“She’s always watching me like I’m some criminal. Everyone else gets to go out, but I’m stuck with daylight curfews. Why can’t I have normal parents?” she fumed, stomping up the stairs.
Inside, she tiptoed through the flat, flicked off the hall light, and slunk past her mother’s room.
“Hungry?” Her mother’s voice trailed after her as she gripped the door handle.
Tamsin rolled her eyes and turned. “What if I said no?”
“Why the attitude?”
“Why do you spy on me?” Tamsin shot back.
“I wasn’t spying. Just glancing out the window,” her mother replied evenly.
“Right. Funny how you never peek when I’m actually home,” Tamsin sneered. “I’ve got loads of revision.” She slammed the door behind her, flicked on the light, and started counting under her breath. “One, two, three…”
Usually, by five, her mother would barge in, scolding her for ingratitude and rebellion. One more outburst, she’d threaten, and there’d be consequences.
But by ten, nothing. The silence unsettled her. She changed, pulled out her books, and slumped at her desk.
She was starving, but eating meant facing an inquisition. Another round of defensiveness. Footsteps paused outside her door. She hunched over her notes, pretending to study.
“Mind if I come in?” Her mother entered before waiting for an answer. Unusual—she never asked.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she began, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Tamsin couldn’t focus on a single word, her spine rigid with anticipation.
“A woman rang. She knew your father. He’s passed. The funeral’s tomorrow,” her mother said, each word measured, foreign to her usual cadence.
“How?” Tamsin jolted up, eyes wide.
“Heart attack. If you come, wear something dark.”
“You’re saying this like it’s nothing!” Tamsin leapt to her feet, chair screeching. “Do you even hear yourself? ‘Wear something dark’—like we’re talking about the weather!”
“You’re impossible,” her mother sighed, standing. “He left us. Or have you forgotten?”
“Because you never loved him!” Tamsin choked on the words.
“Don’t shout. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do! He told me! He said you never cared. Why did you even marry him? You should’ve left us alone. At least he loved me!” Her voice cracked. She collapsed over the desk, sobbing.
A hand touched her shoulder—she jerked away.
“I’ll call the school in the morning. You’ll need to skip lessons.” Her mother left without another word.
Once the tears dried, Tamsin dug out an old photo album. There, wedged between plastic sheets, was one of the rare snapshots of her father—grinning, while she clutched a cloud of candyfloss. She pried it loose, tracing his face with trembling fingers.
***
He’d left when she was eleven. No shouting, no fights—just silence, then absence. Unlike her best mate’s parents, theirs never joked, never kissed.
“Dad, are you really gone?” she’d asked when he met her after school.
“I can’t stay. Your mum doesn’t love me. I’ve held on too long.”
“But I love you.”
“And I love you.” He ruffled her hair. “You’ll understand when you’re older. Listen to your mum.” He walked her home but didn’t step inside.
“Dad!” she called after him. He didn’t turn.
“He’s got someone else,” her mother later explained.
“Kids?”
“Probably.”
***
“Tamsin, wake up.” Her mother’s voice cut through her drowsiness. “We’ve got to go soon—to the mortuary.”
The word jolted her upright. She groped the bed, frantic.
“Looking for this?” Her mother nodded to the photo on her desk. “Hurry. We’ll be late.”
At the kitchen table, her mother sipped tea while Tamsin stared blankly out the window.
“Ready? Let’s go.”
The mortuary was hushed. Strangers lined the walls, keeping their distance from the coffin. Only a plump woman lingered near the head, dabbing her reddened eyes. The one who’d called, Tamsin guessed.
She trembled—never having seen death before. The man in the casket bore no resemblance to the father she remembered. She fixed her eyes on the framed portrait instead. Her mother stood detached, dry-eyed, as if attending a stranger’s funeral.
Later, on the cemetery’s frozen earth, snowflakes kissed her cheeks. The women’s whispers slithered past—pity for the childless widow, murmurs about her and her mother.
When dirt thudded onto the coffin, the crowd wept. Her mother didn’t.
Back home, Tamsin scowled over her tea. “You couldn’t even fake tears? No wonder he left.”
Her mother exhaled, then dropped the weight of fifteen years onto her shoulders:
“That man wasn’t your father.”
***
The words took seconds to land. Tamsin twisted to face her. In the dimming light, her mother’s profile betrayed nothing.
“Is this some twisted way to make me feel better?”
“He asked me not to tell you. But now he’s gone—you deserve to know.”
“Then who is?”
Her mother hesitated. “I was seventeen. Infatuated with an older boy. When he was drafted, I—stupidly—vowed to wait. One night, drunk, he forced himself on me.”
She spat the story like rotten fruit. The baby, the move, the shame. His denial. A loveless marriage for appearances.
“And you never saw him again?”
“Why would I? He never wanted you.”
Understanding crashed over her—her mother’s distance, her possessiveness. The years of resentment.
“I want to meet him,” Tamsin insisted.
“To what end? He’ll deny you. He’s got a family. You’re nothing to him.”
***
Oliver rang on Saturday, reminding her about the cinema. They wandered the frostbitten streets instead, ducking into a café.
“Turns out I had two fathers. Now I’ve got none. One didn’t want me, the other walked away. Why did she even tell me?”
“So you could choose who to call Dad. Or neither. You’ve got your mum. Try not to hate her.”
“She doesn’t love me. She said so.”
Oliver shrugged. “You’re not a kid anymore. The man who raised you—that’s your dad. Who cares about blood?”
Outside, the sky hung low and heavy.
“Let’s skip last period tomorrow,” he offered. “Go to the pictures.”
“Alright.”
They trudged home, chatter weaving between them. At that age, everything cuts deep. The world tilts on its axis, and you grasp for meaning in the chaos. Love feels like war; home, a battleground.
But time straightens what youth bends. One day, the pieces click into place. Until then, you fumble through the dark—searching, always searching—for who you’re meant to be.
