“Who is my real dad?”
“Sophie, want to go to the cinema this Sunday?”
“Dunno. Mum never lets me out in the evening. Maybe in the afternoon.”
“We’ll go in the afternoon, then. Should I book the tickets?” asked James hopefully.
Sophie lifted her gaze to the third-floor window. Had she just seen her mum’s face flicker past the glass? Her mood soured instantly. She snatched her bag from James and took a step back.
“Fine, I’ll go. See you tomorrow.” She hurried toward the building entrance.
“Always watching me like I’m some kind of criminal. All my mates are allowed out with boys, but I’m stuck with daylight curfews. Everyone’s got normal parents except me…” Sophie thought bitterly as she climbed the stairs.
Inside the flat, she toed off her shoes quietly, switched off the hallway light, and slipped past her mum’s door.
“Hungry?” Her mum’s voice caught her just as her fingers closed around her bedroom doorknob.
Sophie rolled her eyes and turned.
“What if I’m not?” she shot back.
“Why must you be so sharp with me?”
“Why do you always spy on me?” Sophie countered.
“I wasn’t spying. I just glanced out the window,” her mum replied calmly.
“Right. Funny how you never ‘glance’ when I’m actually home,” Sophie muttered. “Got loads of revision.” She slammed the door behind her, flicked on the light, and counted under her breath: “One, two, three…”
Usually, by “five,” her mum would barge in, scolding her about ingratitude and attitude. One more stunt like this, one more door slammed in her face…
Sophie reached ten. No sign of her mum. Weird. She changed, pulled textbooks from her bag, and sat at her desk.
Her stomach growled, but no way was dinner happening without an interrogation. She’d sit opposite, firing questions—how could anyone not snap? Footsteps paused outside her door. Sophie hunched over her book, pretending to read.
“Here we go.”
But when her mum entered, it wasn’t with her usual storm.
“Am I interrupting?”
Sophie blinked. An apology? Since when?
“There’s something I need to tell you,” her mum began, settling on the bed.
Sophie kept up the study charade, though not a word registered. Her nerves buzzed.
“A woman called… Your father lived with her. She said he’s… passed. The funeral’s tomorrow.” Her voice was eerily steady, pausing between phrases. Unheard of.
“How?” Sophie’s head jerked up from the book.
“Heart attack. Wear something dark if you’re coming.”
“You’re saying this like it’s the weather!” Sophie shot up, chair screeching. “Hear yourself? ‘If’? ‘Wear something dark’?” She mimicked her mum’s tone.
“Impossible to talk to you. He left us, remember?”
“Because you never loved him!” Sophie’s voice cracked.
“Don’t shout. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do! Dad told me before he left. He said you never loved him. Why’d you even marry him? Should’ve left us together. He loved me—unlike you!” Her throat burned. She collapsed onto the desk, sobbing.
Her mum’s hand grazed her shoulder. Sophie flinched away.
“I’ll call the school tomorrow. Let them know you’ll be absent.” The door clicked shut.
Once cried out, Sophie dug out an old photo album. A rare shot of her and Dad: him grinning, her clutching candyfloss at a fair. She pried the photo free and wept into her palms.
***
Dad left when Sophie was in Year 6. No fights, no warning—just gone. They barely spoke, never joked or kissed like her mate’s parents.
“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 held on too long already.”
“I love you,” Sophie promised.
“Love you too. You’ll understand when you’re older. Listen to your mum.” He walked her home but didn’t come in.
“Dad!” she’d called after him. He never turned.
“He’s got another woman,” her mum later said.
“Kids?”
“Dunno. Probably.”
***
“Sophie, up. We need to leave for the mortuary soon.”
The word “mortuary” jolted her awake. She groped the bedsheets.
“Looking for this?” Her mum held up the photo now propped by her monitor. “Hurry.”
In the kitchen, her mum sipped coffee while Sophie stared blankly out the window.
“Ready? Let’s go.”
At the mortuary, a plump woman sobbed by the coffin—the caller, Sophie guessed. Her hands shook. The man inside bore no resemblance to the dad she remembered. She focused on his framed photo instead. Her mum stood dry-eyed, detached, as if at a stranger’s funeral.
On the cemetery bus, whispers carried: pity for “Nina,” left childless. Muttered mentions of Sophie and her mum. The burial was bleak—sleet, wind-stung eyes. When the coffin lowered, everyone wept. Except her mum.
Back home, over tea:
“Couldn’t you fake one tear? Even for show?” Sophie hissed. “No wonder Dad left.” She stormed off.
Curled under a blanket, she pretended to sleep when her mum entered at dusk.
“That man today… wasn’t your father.”
Sophie whirled around. The dim light hid her mum’s expression, but the voice was flat.
“Making it up now to make me feel better?”
“He asked me never to tell you. Treated you as his own. But he’s gone. You deserve the truth.”
“Then who is my dad?”
“Not now.”
“No! You started this—finish it!” Sophie sat up.
Her mum exhaled. “I was in Year 11. Fell for an older boy. When he got drafted, I confessed I’d wait. Played Tatiana to his Onegin.” A bitter laugh. “He… took advantage. I fought, but he was drunk, stronger. It wasn’t romantic. Just rough. Then I got pregnant.”
Her grandma refused an abortion. “He’ll come around,” she’d said. They moved flats to escape gossip.
“Did he marry you?” Sophie interrupted.
“When he got back, Gran confronted him. He denied everything. Said I’d trapped him. Had a fiancée.”
Her voice hardened. “I hated myself more than him. While my friends partied, I raised you. Then I met Michael. Didn’t love him, but Gran pushed me—‘a child needs a father.’ He tried. But I couldn’t force feelings. That’s why he left.”
Sophie’s stomach twisted. “Where’s my real dad now?”
“Why? Think he’ll magically care? He’ll deny you like he did me. Has his own family. Never once asked about you.”
Now Sophie understood the distance, the curfews.
***
That Saturday, James called about the cinema. They met but skipped the film, opting for a café instead. Sophie unloaded everything.
“Turns out I had two dads. Now none. One didn’t want me, the other walked away. Why tell me?” She stirred cold coffee.
“Maybe so you choose who to call Dad. Or neither. You’ve got your mum. Don’t blame her.”
“She doesn’t love me. Says I remind her of him.”
“You’re grieving. Stop hunting for a dad. The one who raised you counts.”
“Easy for you.”
“Life’s already complicated. Some have no parents. You’ve got a mum, had two dads. You’ll have kids someday—what’s it matter then?”
Outside, leaden clouds promised snow.
“Train or walk?” James asked.
“Not ready to go home.”
“Tomorrow, then? We’ll skip last period.”
“Deal.”
They walked, chatting. At that age, every heartache feels catastrophic. Distance warps perspective—strangers seem kinder than family. But time untangles it all. Understanding comes later.
That’s the point, really. Figuring ourselves out.
