The Right to Be Wrong
I found out my dad had a mistress completely by accident. I’d skipped school that day to accompany my mate Chloe to get her tattoo. Popping home to change out of my uniform seemed smart. As I wrestled one leg into my jeans, the key turned in the front door. I froze, wobbling unsteadily. Burglars? Then Dad’s voice echoed down the hall. A phone call?
“Just grabbing my kit bag and heading straight out,” he said, sounding stressed. “Can’t claim I was at squash if my gear’s under the bed!”
I was wrong. It wasn’t a call; he was recording a voice note. Moments later, a woman’s voice cooed back.
“Darling, missed you dreadfully! Can’t wait… Oh, and I baked your favourite sausage rolls, so hurry before they’re cold! Kisses!”
The meaning took a moment to sink in. First, I recognised the voice: Aunt Cath. Dad’s colleague and Mum’s best friend’s sister, who visited often. I always liked her. Aunt Cath wasn’t like other boring adults, pretending she knew everything. She had fun, listened to proper music, not Mum and Dad’s dreary old tunes. Only then did I grasp *why* Aunt Cath was sending Dad voice notes. Flirting.
The key turned again. Silence. I sank onto my bed, replaying Cath’s words. No mistake. Dad was cheating. What now? Tell Mum? How could I face Dad, or Aunt Cath, ever again?
Stuck in limbo, I raced to meet Chloe. She’d texted five times. We’d planned this tattoo for ages! Chloe had mastered forging her mum’s signature flawlessly. Now, my enthusiasm was gone.
“Em, what’s crawled up your bum?” Chloe pestered. “Fancy ink now? Easy-peasy, I’ll forge your mum’s sig!”
Desperately, I wanted to share this shocker, share the burden. But I couldn’t. Not even with Chloe. So I pretended it *was* about the tattoo.
For two weeks, I barely functioned. No studying, dodging mates, snapping at Mum, blanking Dad. Clueless what to do. I nearly blurted it once, but Mum was raging about my failing Chemistry GCSE mock. We had a massive row. Later, she came to my room with a chocolate éclair I love.
“Sorry I yelled, darling. Awful parenting. I’m just terrified about your GCSEs! I want everything perfect for you…”
“Mum, stop fussing! I’ll pass! Is that éclair mine?”
“Course. Truce? Hate it when we fight.”
I took the éclair, kissed her cheek, and silently vowed: I’d never hurt her that way. If a silly row upset her this much, imagine Dad’s betrayal? Mum must *never* find out.
Unwillingly, I became Dad’s accomplice. Covered his ‘late meetings’, reminded him about birthdays and Mum’s requests, distracted Mum during his suspicious calls. Yet, I ignored his demands, was rude, barely holding back my true feelings.
Then things settled. Dad came home on time, I scraped my GCSEs, moved into Year 11, and the nightmare faded. Plus, I met Jack. Older, first-year Law student, played guitar. We hung out with the group, but increasingly slipped off alone. One night, chatting by the fountain, time vanished. I was late. Tiptoeing to my room, I thought I’d got away with it.
“Phew,” I sighed. Close call.
“Emily?”
Not close enough.
Mum peered in. “Bit late, love.”
Bracing for a lecture, I got confusion instead. She barely seemed to expect an answer.
“Sorry, lost track with the girls. Mum, you okay?”
Even in the dim light, her eyes looked red and puffy.
“Fine. You or Dad buy anything from H.Samuel? Jewellers? Just wondered…”
A gut feeling said *caution*.
“Jewellers?”
“Saw a receipt for earrings… thought maybe…”
“Oh! That!” I improvised. “Forgot to say! I asked Dad for cash towards a proper gift for Chloe’s birthday? She just pierced her ears, so… Thought earrings? Went overboard, didn’t I? Sorry.”
Mum’s face lit up.
“Don’t be silly, darling! Not at all! So thoughtful remembering dates, just like your father!”
Lying felt vile. Next day, I resolved: End this! Talking to Dad terrified me. But confronting Aunt Cath… I could handle that. What to say? Improvise. He’d figure it out.
Dad and Cath worked at The Chronicle – Dad wrote, Cath was Editor. When I was younger, he took me often. Easy access.
Timing it for when Dad was out proved simple. He mentioned interviewing a factory boss over breakfast. After registration, I bolted, asking Chloe to cover. The bus got me there in twenty minutes.
Reception waved me through. Confidently, I climbed to the second floor, knocking on the ‘Editor’ door.
“Come!” called Cath’s voice.
I pushed it open.
“Emily?” Cath looked baffled. “What brings you here? Dad’s—”
Before she finished, I walked to the chair opposite her desk, hiding shaking knees. The fiery speech I’d planned vanished. Stiffly, I managed:
“Those earrings? Dad bought them for you, right?”
Little hoops with sparkling crystals winked in Cath’s ears.
“What?”
If I hadn’t overheard him, her genuine confusion might have fooled me.
“I know everything,” I stated coldly. “Mum found the jeweller’s receipt. Aren’t you ashamed?”
Something unreadable flickered across Cath’s face. Annoyed?
“Your father bought jewellery?” she asked carefully.
I recalled Mum specifically said earrings.
“Not just ‘something’. Earrings. Stop pretending you’re innocent.”
Cath was silent for ages. Then: “Go home, Emily. Stay out of adult messes.”
Something in her tone unsettled me. But I’d failed. Real life was messier. Heading home, I realised Cath would tell Dad, he’d confront me, and hiding it from Mum?
That evening, I faked a headache and went to bed early. Dad was late – probably explaining things to Cath. I heard him return. Yet, next morning, he acted normally with me, though distracted and grumpy with Mum.
A week later, he packed a bag and moved in with Lucy, the intern. *She* got the earrings. Cath had sacked her rival. I pieced it together eavesdropping on Mum and her friend later:
“Don’t blame Cath! Saintly woman! Soon as she realised your bloke was carrying on with that floozy intern, sacked her outright! Who knew he’d run off *to* her? Guilty conscience! He’ll regret losing you!”
“Oh, no! *My* fault!” Mum wept. “I neglected him lately! And spied on him – stupid, but I suspected something. Cath did nothing wrong!”
Only I knew the real blame was mine. If only I could undo it!
Life became hell. Mum sobbed in her room constantly. School
Lizzy stared into her cooling Starbucks latte outside the café, the needle-sting on her arm a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache in her chest, knowing her dad was back home drinking tea like nothing had happened but she still couldn’t bring herself to believe love wasn’t just a cruel trick you played on yourself, nor make up her mind if home was even where she belonged anymore.
