Sophie nearly went arse-over-tit getting her jeans on when the key turned in the lock. She froze mid-hoppity-hop, one leg stubbornly stuck in the denim tube. Burglers? Then came Dad’s voice – chatting away. Weird.
“Gotta grab my kit and dash,” he was saying cheerfully. “Hardly convincing to say I was at footie practice if my muddy boots are under the bed!”
Oh. Not chatting *to* someone. Recording a message. Then, a woman’s voice crackled through the hallway air:
“Darling, I’m absolutely fizzing! Hurry up! Made your favourite cupcakes – they won’t stay warm forever! Kisses!”
The *meaning* hit Sophie later. First came recognition: Auntie Kate! Mum’s best mate’s sister, also Dad’s colleague. Sophie liked her – Auntie Kate was effortlessly cool, listened to proper music, not Dad’s dreary old folk albums. Why was Dad recording *her* message? Sophie’s brain finally caught up.
A key turned again. Silence. Sophie sank onto her bed, replaying Auntie Kate’s sugary words. Blimey. Dad was having it off with Auntie Kate. What did she *do*? Tell Mum? How to face Dad? Or Auntie Kate?
Utterly stumped, she raced off to meet her mate Chloe, who’d spammed nine texts. They’d spent ages planning matching tattoos; Chloe had perfected her mum’s signature. Soph’s excitement had vanished like steam.
“Sophie! What crawled up your jumper?” Chloe pestered. “Fancy ink now? Easy-peasy!”
Sophie burned to share the nuclear secret, spread the horror. She couldn’t. Blaming the tattoo seemed easiest.
For two weeks, Sophie was useless: schoolwork neglected, mates avoided, rude to Mum, icy glare-outs with Dad. Clueless. She almost cracked telling Mum, but Mum started yelling over a GCSE Chemistry fail, sparking a spectacular row. Later, Mum knocked with Sophie’s ultimate weakness: a Bakewell tart.
“Sorry sweetheart. Shouting… not my finest parenting. Exam stress, you know?”
“Mum! Chill! Exams are fine! Bakewell for me?”
“Obviously. Truce? Hate arguing.”
Sophie took the pastry, kissed Mum’s cheek. Promised herself: *Never* hurt her like Dad would. Cover-up duty started. Sophie morphed into Dad’s reluctant accomplice: covering late ‘work’, reminding him about birthdays and Mum’s requests, distracting Mum during calls. She repaid him with icy sarcasm and barely hidden contempt.
Then, things settled: Dad came home on time, Sophie survived GCSEs into Sixth Form. That summer felt like a bad kebab dream. Plus, she met Tom – legal student, guitarist, two years older. Group hangs drifted into snatched walks by the pier fountain. Tonight, they lost track.
“Right, curfew busted,” Sophie whispered, tip-toeing in.
“Sophie?”
Bugger.
Mum peered in. “Bit late?”
Sophie braced for Armageddon. Mum looked… distracted?
“Chloe time warp. You okay, Mum?”
Even in the dim hall lamp, Sophie saw Mum’s eyes were red-raw.
“Fine. Erm… Did Dad buy anything? Jewellery?”
Sophie’s spidey-sense tingled. “Jewellery?”
“Saw a receipt for earrings…”
“Oh! *That*! Sorry! Birthday gift for Chloe? She got her ears pierced?” Sophie spun faster than a politician. “Too expensive?”
Mum’s face cleared instantly. “Goodness no! Just wondering! So thoughtful, like your dad!”
Lying felt vile. Next day, Sophie declared war. Talking to Dad? Terrifying. Auntie Kate? More doable. She’d wing it.
Dad and Aunt Kate worked at the local newspaper – he wrote, she edited. Sophie knew the office; Dad used to bring her young. Easy access.
Timing was key. Two days later, Dad mentioned interviewing a factory boss at breakfast. Perfect. Sophie bunked off after registration, Chloe covering. Caught the bus. Easy.
The bored receptionist waved her through. Sophie marched upstairs, knocked on ‘EDITOR’.
“Enter!” Aunt Kate called. Sophie walked in.
“Sophie? What brings you?” Kate looked puzzled. “Dad’s out interviewing…”
Trying to hide knocking knees, Sophie sat opposite the desk. On the bus ride, her planned speech soared; now, it crashed.
“Dad bought you sparkly earrings, didn’t he?”
Little crystal studs glittered on Kate’s earlobes.
“What?”
If Sophie hadn’t heard that message, she might have doubted herself. Kate looked genuinely bewildered.
“I know everything,” Sophie snapped. “Mum found the receipt. Aren’t you ashamed?”
Something shifted on Kate’s face – anger? She was definitely cross.
“You believe your father purchased jewellery?”
Sophie stuck to the script. “Earrings. Stop pretending!”
Kate stayed silent unnervingly long. Finally: “Go home, Sophie. Stay out of adult messes.”
Kate’s peculiar tone unsettled Sophie. Worse than expected. Leaving, Sophie panicked: Kate would tell Dad! He’d demand answers! How hide *that* from Mum?
Feigning a migraine, Sophie went to bed early. Dad came home late – probably explaining to Kate. He didn’t mention it. Next morning, he acted normal towards her, but otherwise seemed distracted, ignoring Mum’s questions.
One week later, he packed a holdall and moved out… to live with Lucy, the intern. *She* got the earrings. Aunt Kate sacked her. Sophie overheard Mum’s friend explaining later: “Be kind! Kate’s a saint – fired Lucy pronto! Who knew he’d flounce off to her? Guilty conscience! He’ll regret losing you!”
“*My* fault! Neglected him… Suspected something silly!” Mum sighed. “Kate’s blameless!”
Only Sophie knew the real culprit. Her. If only…
Nightmare followed: Mum cried constantly, Sophie failed tests, fell out with Chloe.
Tom became tricky too. Since becoming official, they rowed constantly – he was glued to band practice or weekend deliveries. They missed cinema seats, Sophie kicked off royally outside the Odeon. She stopped answering his calls.
One usual gloomy afternoon, Sophie waited till Mum left for work, slunk home. Exclusion? Resit year? Whatever. Parents lied constantly; why couldn’t she?
The key turning echoed *that* awful day. Rewind time? Please!
Listening: Mum. Normal hallway noises. Then… male laughter? Boyfriend? Can’t let them think home alone!
Sophie flung her door open. Ready with a venomous “Oh, hello!”, she saw… Dad.
“Sophie?” Mum looked startled. “Aren’t you supposed to be…”
“Stomach ache! Got off school!”
“Stomach?” Dad sounded worried. “NHS Direct?”
“What’s *he* doing here?” Sophie spat.
“Sophie! Manners!” Mum snapped.
Dad opened his mouth. Mum touched his arm gently. “Sweetheart, we need to talk.” Dad silently kicked off his shoes and headed for the kitchen. Mum steered Sophie back.
“Why is he here?!” Sophie demanded, unchanged.
Mum sighed. “He’s your dad, Sophie. Less scowling. People slip up. Important thing is admitting fault. Dad did wrong. He wants back.”
“*Back*?”
“It’s his home too
Lisa stared out the rain-streaked bus window at the grey London streets, her throbbing new tattoo a stark reminder that, honestly, sometimes your parents deserved the silent treatment and boys *definitely* deserved the bin, at least until GCSEs were over and she could consider whether romance was really more trouble than revising for her dreadful A-Levels.
The Right to Make Mistakes
