Without an Invitation
Victor Perry stands in the hallway with a bag of medicine from the chemist when his neighbour, Auntie Nora, stops him by the postboxes.
Victor, congratulations, she says brightly. Your daughter well She hesitates, checking his face to see if she can continue. Shes gotten married. Yesterday. I saw it online, my niece shared her photos.
He doesnt immediately grasp whats off. Congratulations sounds like its meant for someone else, not for him. He nods, as though theyre talking about some distant acquaintance.
What wedding? he asks, his tone level, almost business-like.
Auntie Nora already regrets starting this conversation.
Well they signed the register, I gather. Photoswhite dress and all that. I thought youd know.
Victor Perry goes up the stairs to his flat, places the bag on the kitchen table, and just stares at it for a long time, still in his coat. Theres a missing entry in his mental spreadsheet: invitation. He never expected a grand reception for two hundredjust a call, at least. Even a message.
He scrolls through his phone, finds his daughters page. The photos are clinical, almost like a report rather than a celebration. Her in a pale dress, a man by her side in a dark suit, a brief caption: We. Comments: Wishing you happiness, Congrats. But his name is nowhere to be found.
Victor sits down, takes off his coat, and drapes it across the back of the chair. In his chest, not even grief, but a sharp, embarrassing anger riseshes been left out. Nobody asked. Nobody considered it necessary.
He dials her number. The ringtone goes for ages. At last, a curt hello.
Whats this? he asks. Youve got married?
Theres a pause. He hears her breathing out sharply, bracing herself.
Yes, Dad. Yesterday.
And you didnt tell me.
I knew youd react like this.
Like what? He stands, pacing the kitchen. This isnt about how I react. Do you realise how this looks?
I dont want to talk about it on the phone.
How would you like to talk about it? His voice almost cracks, but he keeps it in check. Where are you, anyway?
She gives him an address. He doesn’t recognise it. Thats the second humiliation in a minute.
Im coming over, he says.
Dad, please dont
I have to.
He hangs up without a goodbye. Then he stands, phone in handlike evidence. Inside, everything screams for things to be set right. In his view, order means family doesnt hide important thingsits all as it ought to be. Hes clung to that idea his whole life, like a handrail.
He packs quickly and methodically. In his bag, he puts applesbought at the market that morning before the chemistsand a card with money. The moneys from the just in case box in the wardrobe. Hes not sure why he grabs it. Maybe so he doesnt turn up empty-handed. Maybe it grants him some dignity again.
On the train, Victor sits by the window. Warehouses, old garages, patches of trees scroll past, but he sees something else.
He remembers her, years ago, bringing a boy home when she was sixteen. A wide, too-protective smile, as if shielding herself in advance. Victor didnt raise his voicejust said, Schoolwork first, silly notions later. The boy left, she locked herself in her room. He knocked an hour later, wanted to talk, but she answered, Dont. He thought hed done right. A father must hold the line.
He remembers her school-leavers prom. Turning up outside and spotting her with friends and a boy. He walked over and, without greeting anyone, said, Whos this? She blushed. He said, more loudly than he meant to, I said, who is this. Are you listening to me? The boy shuffled off, the friends went quiet and checked their phones. She was silent all evening. Victor saw that as setting boundaries.
And then he remembers her mother. Years before, at Aunt Vals birthday, he declared in front of everyone, Youve messed it up again, as usual. Cant do anything properly. He hadnt meant it cruelly. Hed just felt tired of carrying the load, desperate for things to be right. Her mother had forced a smile, cried later in the kitchen. He saw her, but didnt go in. He thought shed brought it on herself.
Now, these scenes flood his mind like old receipts from a pocket, long overdue for the bin. He tries to fit them all together, clinging to the thought: I didnt hit, didnt drink, always worked, paid up, pulled through. I meant well.
At the new address, he stands at the ground-floor buzzer, dials the flat number. The door buzzes open. The lift is slow, and he feels his palms sweat.
She opens the door. Her hair is rushed back, shadows under her eyes. Shes in a homey jumpernot party clothes. He expected a glow, but instead sees exhaustion and tension.
Hi, she says.
Hello, he answers, handing her the bag. Some apples. And He lifts the card. For you both.
She takes it without looking, as if its something you cant just let drop on the floor.
In the hallway are two pairs of shoeshis and hers, a strangers coat on the hook. Victor notices these automatically, as someone used to scanning the space he enters.
Is he in? he asks.
Kitchen, she replies. Dad, lets just keep this calm.
Calm sounds both like a plea and a command.
A young man about thirty sits at the kitchen table, face tired but composed. He stands.
Hello, Mr Perry. Im
I know who you are, Victor interrupts, instantly realising how false that sounds. He doesnt know. Not even the mans name.
His daughter flashes him a quick warning look.
My names Simon, the man says, cool and polite. Pleased to meet you.
Victor nods, not shaking hands at first. Then, awkwardly, he does. Its brief, dry.
Congratulations, then, says Victor, but congratulations is still a foreign word in his mouth.
Thank you, his daughter replies.
On the table are two mugs, one with a dreg of coffee. There are papers, maybe marriage forms, a box with dried-out cake left over. The first day of married life looks more like the morning after a clear-up.
Sit down, she says.
He sits, hands on his knees. He wants to get right to the point but cant phrase it without sounding pitiful.
Why? he asks. Why did I have to hear it from a neighbour?
She looks from Simon to her father.
Because I didnt want you there, she says.
I figured as much. Victor keeps his tone steady. But I want to know why.
Simon slides his cup aside, as if making space for the conversation.
I can leave, Simon offers.
No need, his daughter replies. You live here. Its your home.
Victor feels a sting. Your home. Not his. Suddenly, hes not a guesthes an outsider.
I wasnt here to cause trouble, he says. I just Im the father. That that means something.
Dad, she cuts in. You always start with Im the father. Then comes a list of what Im supposed to do.
What I expect? he raises his eyebrows. You think inviting your father to your wedding is just a duty I demand?
I think youd have made it into a test. An exam. And I didnt want that.
A test of what? He leans in. Id have just come, thats all.
She lets out a small, humourless laugh.
Youd have come and looked at what everyone was wearing, who said what, how his relatives greeted you. Youd find fault. And then Id hear about it for a year.
Thats not true, he says automatically.
Simon coughs quietly, stays silent.
Dad, she says, her tone gentler. Do you remember my prom?
Of course, he replies. I picked you up.
Do you remember what you said to me, in front of everyone?
He tenses. He remembers, but doesnt want to admit it.
I asked who that boy was. So?
You asked as if Id stolen something, she says. I was there in the dress Mum and I picked outI was happy. Then you came and made me wish I could fall through the floor.
I wanted to know who you were with, he says. Thats normal, isnt it?
Its normal to ask me later. At home. Not in front of everyone.
He wants to argue, but suddenly sees something new in her face. Not teenage resentment, but an adults fearof losing her footing.
Is that the reason you didnt invite me? he asks, trying to bring the conversation back to logic.
Not just that, she says. Its always like that with you.
She stands, turns on the tap and starts washing up, as if her hands must be occupied. The water runsa heavy pause.
Do you remember how you spoke to Mum at Aunt Vals do? she asks, not turning around.
He remembers. The table, the salads, the family, and his own words. Hed felt right, then.
I said shed mixed things up, he says, carefully.
You told her she couldnt do anything right, she corrects. And everyone heard. I was standing by you. I was 22. That’s when I realised, if I brought someone to you, if I did anything important where you could see, you might do the sameand you wouldnt even notice.”
Victor feels his throat tighten, heat rising. He wants to say, But I apologised afterwards. But he hadnt. Hed said, Dont be so dramatic. Hed said, Its just the truth.
I didnt mean to humiliate anyone, he says.
His daughter turns around. The taps still running.
But you did, she says. Not just once.
Simon gets up, comes over and turns off the tap before sitting back down. The quiet action carries a weight: in this place, someone knows how to stop unnecessary noise.
You think Im a monster, Victor says.
I think you dont know when to stop, she replies. Youre good at work, at fixing things, at taking charge. But when the people around you are hurting, you dont see it. All you see is wrong.
He wants to say, without him keeping everything right, the family would have collapsed. He supported them when wages were late, kept the roof over their heads, stepped in when Mum was ill. But suddenly he realises, listing all that now would sound like handing her a bill for love.
I came because Im hurting, he says after a pause. Im not made of stone. I heard from a stranger. Do you understand how that
I do, his daughter says quietly. And it hurts me, too. I knew youd be hurt. I havent slept for a week. But I chose the lesser evil.
Lesser evil, he repeats. So Im the evil.
She doesn’t reply straight away.
Dad, she says at last. I dont want to fight you. I just want to live without dreading the day you ruin something for me. I dont think you do it on purposeits just how you are.
He looks at Simon.
And you, he says. Anything to add?
Simon sighs.
I dont want to get in the middle, he says. But I saw how frightened she was. She thought youd come and interrogate us allabout my job, my parents, the flat. She was sure it would become gossip for years.
Whats wrong with questions? Victor feels his firmness returning. Should I be happy not knowing anything?
Questions are fine, Simon says. But not when they make someone feel as if theyre on trial.
His daughter sits back down, palms flat on the table.
And do you know what else? she asks.
Victor braces.
When I told you two years ago about me and Simon, you wanted to have a word with him. He came over, you sat him in the kitchen and began asking about his salary, why he didnt own a car, why he rented. You spoke calmly, but as if he needed to prove his right to be with me.
I just wanted to know what sort of bloke he was, Victor says.
You wanted to put him beneath you, his daughter says. And me, too. If he wasnt good enough, then youd be rightId chosen badly. Youre always right.
He remembers that evening. Yes, hed quizzed Simon. Hed thought it parental carehis duty. Then, it felt like protecting his daughter from mistakes.
I didnt mean he begins.
Dad, you always say you dont mean it. Then you do it. And Im left dealing with it.
Victor realises his knee is shaking. He clenches his fingers to keep it hidden.
So what now? he asks. Youve decided you dont need me?
I do. But only at a distance, she says. I want you in my life, but not running it.
I dont run it, he protests, weaker now.
You do, she says. Even now. You didnt come to ask how I wasyou came to put me in my place.
He wants to object, but recognises the truth. He came armed with arguments, ready to defend his correctness. He didnt come to congratulate. He came to reassert his role.
I dont know how to be any other way, he admits, surprising even himself.
Hes used to being confident, giving orders at work.
His daughter studies him, more gently.
That, she says softly, is honest at last.
A pause falls, less harsh now, more tired.
Im not asking you to disappear, she goes on. Just not to turn up uninvited. Not to make scenes. Not to say things in front of people that cant be unsaid.
And if I want to see you? he asks.
Then ring first. Make arrangements. And if I say no, it means no, she says. Not because I dont love you. Because its safer for me that way.
Saferthat hits harder than hurt. He realises shes building her life not around his expectations, but to protect herself from him.
Simon gets up.
Ill put the kettle on, he says, moving to the stove.
Victor watches him, unconsciously judging: how he holds the mug, how he opens cupboards. The old urge to assess everything lingers, reflexively.
Dad, his daughter says, I dont want you leaving here thinking youve been thrown out. But I wont pretend nothing happened either.
So what do you want? he asks.
She considers.
I want you to tell me you understand, she replies. Not I meant well. Just that you get it.
He looks at her, feeling resistance fight something unfamiliar. Admitting it would mean losing ground. But he knows hes lost plenty already.
I understand that he falters. That I made you feel ashamed. And that youre afraid of that.
She doesnt smile, but her shoulders ease, as if shes no longer bracing for a blow.
Yes, she says.
Simon returns with a fresh teapot and mugs. Victor notes the kettles spotlessno limescale. He realises that, in this house, everything will be done differently, and hell have to learn how to be a guest.
I dont know how its supposed to be now, he says quietly.
Well, his daughter says, next week, lets meet in town. In a café. For an hour. Just a chat. Without Simon, if thats easier. And no tests.
What about at yours? he asks.
Not just yet, she replies. I need some time.
He almost objects, but holds back. Bitterness rises inside himalong with strange relief: at last, the rules are stated.
All right, he says. At the café.
Simon sets a mug in front of him.
Sugar? Simon asks.
No, thank you, Victor replies.
He sips. The tea is hot, burns his tongue. He looks at his daughter, accepting that yesterday is irretrievablehe cant demand it back, no matter his rights.
I still think you should have told me, he murmurs. Its wrong not to invite your father.
And I think no one should be shamed, she says quietly. Thats what we both think.
He nods. It isnt forgivenessjust an acknowledgement that everyones truth is different, and his is no longer the only one that matters.
When he leaves, his daughter sees him to the door. In the hallway, he shrugs on his coat, straightens the collar. He wants to hug her, but can’t bring himself to.
Ill ring you, he says.
Ring me, she replies. And Dad if you turn up without arranging it, I wont let you in.
He looks at her. Her voice is calm, not threatening, just tired.
I understand, he says.
In the lift, he rides alone, listening to its dull whine. Outside, he walks to the bus stop, hands in pockets. The card and apples are left behind, on their kitchen table. His visits traces remain, there, in someone elses home.
It takes him ages to get back: a bus to the station, then the train. Warehouses and fence-posts flash past the window in the dusk. He looks at his reflection and thinks: the family he built like a fortress turned out not to be a fortress, but a row of separate roomseach with its own door and lock. He doesnt know if hell be let past the hallway again. But he understands now hell have to knock differently.
