**Diary Entry**
How could he? Mum passed away only a few months ago, and already he’s brought *her* into our home…
Emma hurried home from school, swinging her PE bag carelessly. Her backpack thumped against her spine, but she barely noticed. She and Dad were going to the theatre tonight!
She burst into the hallway and knew at once he wasn’t home—his coat wasn’t on the hook. Her excitement fizzled. Then she remembered: the play didn’t start for another two hours. *He’ll come. We’ll make it*, she told herself.
She waited, glancing at the clock. Normally, time dragged, but today the hands raced ahead while Dad stayed missing. What if he forgot? Or got held up at work? She perched on the sofa, restless, until the key turned in the lock. She flew to the hallway.
“Finally,” Emma exhaled. “I was waiting forever—we’ll be late!” she scolded, still prickling from the long, anxious wait.
Dad hung up his coat, smoothing his dark grey suit and neat hair—always impeccable. Emma admired him. Clean-shaven, smelling faintly of his usual cologne. While her friends complained of strict or drinking fathers, hers never raised his voice without cause. He spoiled her gently—just being with him, like tonight at the theatre, was happiness enough.
She resembled him—tall and angular, with sharp grey eyes—not Mum’s soft, blonde warmth. But Dad called her his princess. Didn’t that mean she was pretty?
“Aren’t we going?” Emma asked when he lingered, time slipping away.
“We will. Let me just have some tea, love.”
She nodded and hurried to the kitchen. He sat heavily, exhaustion lining his face.
“Go get ready,” he said.
In her room, she tugged off her uniform and chose a green dress, twirling before the mirror.
“All set?” Dad peered in.
The car smelled of leather and his aftershave. Through the window, London shimmered, sharing her joy.
The theatre stole her breath—chandeliers, red carpets, gilt mirrors. Climbing the grand staircase, she felt like royalty. The lobby hummed with voices, muffled by plush carpets. She and Dad wandered, pausing before actor portraits until the first bell chimed.
“We’ve got time,” Dad said as she tugged him toward their seats.
But Emma craved the velvet chair, the chandelier dimming. The scent—dust and greasepaint—enchanted her.
“It smells amazing,” she sighed.
“Smells old,” Dad muttered.
As the curtain rose, she forgot everything.
At intermission, Dad vanished. She found him on the balcony with a woman—tall, painted lips, evening gown. Their heads bent together.
Emma’s throat tightened. “Dad!”
He startled. “I lost you,” she said brightly, ignoring the woman.
“Who was that?” she asked after.
“A colleague. Ran into her.” His lie stung. *Liar.*
But the second act swept her doubts away.
At home, they debated the play’s realism while Mum listened, pale. Later, Emma would remember this—their last outing before the hospital stays began.
Mum died a year and a half later. At sixteen, Emma knew it was coming, yet the finality shattered her. Dad stayed stoic. How?
Then, months later, he brought *her* home—Valerie, younger, heavily made-up. Familiar, somehow.
“My daughter, Emma,” Dad said nervously. “This is Valerie…”
Emma’s stomach lurched. “Pleasure,” Valerie smiled.
“Not mine,” Emma snapped, locking herself in her room, choking on tears. How *could* he?
Their kitchen whispers, Valerie’s throaty laugh—it felt like mockery.
“What was that?” Dad demanded later.
“You brought your *mistress* here!”
“She’s my wife now. I need—life goes on, Emma.”
“Does it?” Her voice cracked.
Valerie moved in. Emma ignored her, until one day Valerie perched on her bed.
“Shall we call a truce?”
Emma kept her eyes on her textbook.
“Fine. War it is,” Valerie sighed.
Then Mum’s clothes vanished from the wardrobes. Emma stormed in. “You let her throw Mum’s things out?”
Dad sighed. “We needed space.”
“I *hate* her! I remember now—she’s your ‘colleague’ from the theatre! You cheated on Mum!” She fled, slamming the door.
Their shouting match ended with threats of leaving. But where would she go? She stayed, simmering, until university.
Dad called rarely. She answered tersely, surviving on his money—why should Valerie get it all?
Years later, a slurred phone call brought her home. The flat reeked of medicine. Dad, slumped in a wheelchair, mumbled her name.
Valerie was gone. Neighbour Martha had stepped in.
“He and Valerie fought for months. After one row, he collapsed,” Martha explained.
Emma returned weekly, watching him recover. Mum’s photo reappeared.
After graduation, she moved back properly, married. But though she pitied Dad, the betrayal—of Mum, of her—never quite faded. Like a splinter, it lingered, unforgiven.
