How could he? Mum had only been gone a few months, and already he’d brought *her* into the house…
Emily raced home from school, swinging her shoe bag cheerfully. Her backpack thumped against her shoulders, but she didn’t care. She and Dad were going to the theatre tonight!
She burst into the hallway and knew at once he wasn’t home—his overcoat wasn’t on the rack. Her spirits sank. Then she remembered the play didn’t start for another two hours. *He’ll come. We’ll make it,* she told herself.
She kicked off her shoes and waited, glancing at the clock. Normally, time dragged, but today the hands seemed to race forward while Dad stayed absent. What if he forgot? What if work held him up? She fidgeted, near tears, until the lock clicked. She flew into the hall.
“Finally,” Emily exhaled. “I’ve been waiting forever—we’ll be late!” she scolded, still smarting from the agonising wait.
Dad hung up his coat, smoothing his dark grey suit with one hand, though his hair was already perfectly combed. Emily admired him—always tidy, clean-shaven, smelling of that same aftershave.
At school, classmates complained about their fathers—too strict, or worse, drinking too much. Not her dad. He never shouted unless she’d earned it. He rarely said no, not that she asked for much. Just being with him, like tonight at the theatre, was joy enough.
She took after him—tall, angular, with his straight nose and grey eyes. She wished she’d inherited Mum’s bright curls and dimples instead. But Dad called her his princess, his beauty. Didn’t that mean something?
“Aren’t we going?” she asked, crestfallen when he made no move to leave.
“We will. Just let me have some tea first, alright? Plenty of time.”
She huffed but followed him to the kitchen. He sank into a chair, weary and distant.
“Go on, get dressed,” he said.
She raced to her room, already knowing which dress to wear—green, her favourite. She twirled before the mirror.
“Ready?” Dad peered in.
“Yep!”
The car smelled of leather and air freshener and something comforting she couldn’t name. Gazing out the window, she imagined the whole city shared her excitement.
The theatre always stole her breath. Crystal chandeliers, endless mirrors, the crimson carpet stretching up the grand staircase. Climbing it, she felt like royalty.
In the hushed foyer, couples strolled, murmuring. The carpet muffled footsteps; the rustling crowd sounded like autumn leaves, thrilling and mysterious. She tugged Dad along, gawping at portraits of actors, gasping at famous names. The first bell chimed.
“Slow down,” he chuckled. “It’s only the first call.”
But she hurried to their seats, craning her neck at the chandelier until it ached.
“It always smells amazing here,” she sighed.
“Dust and makeup,” Dad grimaced.
“I love it,” she insisted.
The hall filled. The second bell rang, then the third. The chandelier dimmed. The heavy gold-embroidered curtains trembled, parting with a whisper. Emily held her breath…
At intermission, Dad vanished. She checked the buffet, then the hall. Finally, she spotted him by the balcony doors—with a woman in a shimmering gown, their heads close together. Emily’s chest tightened.
“Dad!” she called.
He stepped back, startled.
“I couldn’t find you. The next act’s starting,” she said pointedly, ignoring the woman.
“Who was that?” she demanded later.
“A colleague. We ran into each other.” His tone was too smooth. *Liar,* she thought.
The play swallowed her anger. On the drive home, they debated the acting—Dad unimpressed, Emily enraptured.
Mum greeted them, pale and strained. “How was it?”
“Brilliant! Why didn’t you come?”
Mum and Dad exchanged a glance. Emily babbled about the play, forgetting her unease.
Later, she’d remember this as their last outing. Mum was already ill, though Emily didn’t know. The diagnosis came later. Mum faded slowly, her eyes always sad. Emily learned to cook, to clean, to pretend things were normal.
“Dad… Mum won’t die, will she?” she once asked.
“Let’s not think like that,” he said.
But she couldn’t stop.
Mum died a year later. Emily found her before school—still, cold. She was sixteen. Expected, yet unprepared. She wondered how Dad stayed so calm. Didn’t he care?
Grief dulled with time, though it still ambushed her. Then, one evening, Dad came home *with her*—the woman from the theatre, all red lips and cloying perfume.
“This is my daughter, Emily. And this is Victoria…” He hesitated, eyes pleading: *Don’t embarrass me.*
“Lovely to meet you,” Victoria simpered.
“Wish I could say the same,” Emily spat, slamming her bedroom door.
Tears choked her. How *could* he? Mum wasn’t even cold. She heard them laughing in the kitchen, pictured them kissing. She wanted to scream, but Victoria’s laughter mocked her.
“What was that?” Dad snapped later.
“What was *this*? Bringing your mistress here?”
“She’s not—we’re getting married. You’re old enough to understand. A man needs—”
“Do *you* understand *me*?” Her voice cracked.
They married weeks later. Victoria moved in. Emily ignored her, even refusing to share the loo.
One day, Victoria perched on her bed.
“I didn’t invite you.”
“Like it or not, I’m here. Let’s be civil.”
Emily stared at her textbook.
“Fine. War it is,” Victoria said, leaving.
Emily stuck out her tongue.
After school, she found Mum’s clothes gone. The final insult. She stormed into Dad’s room.
“You let her throw Mum’s things out? How *could* you?”
“They were just gathering dust. We need the space—”
“I *hate* her! I hate *you*! You never loved Mum! She was alive, and you were with *her*—I *remember*!” She fled, sobbing.
Dad roared after her. She threatened to leave. Where? Nowhere. She stayed, counting days until university.
She left for London, ignoring Dad’s calls, spending his money grudgingly. *Why should Victoria get it all?*
Years later, he called, slurring. Drunk? Impossible. She rushed home. The flat reeked of medicine. Dad slumped in a wheelchair.
“Emily…”
Her anger melted. She hugged him.
Victoria was gone—vanished after fights, leaving when he fell ill. A neighbour, Aunt Marge, helped. Emily returned most weekends. Dad recovered. Mum’s photo reappeared.
After graduation, Emily moved back properly. Found a job. Fell in love. Married.
She pitied Dad. But the betrayal—of Mum, of her—lingered like a splinter, too deep to dig out.
