It was freezing and windy outside. Emily hurried back from school, her breath turning to frost on her scarf, lashes, and the strands of hair escaping her woollen hat. She couldn’t wait to get home, sip some hot tea with lemon, curl up on the sofa under a blanket, and just… forget.
The thought of warmth made her quicken her pace. Finally, the front door of her building. She yanked it open and nearly collided with Mrs. Higgins, their stout, sharp-eyed neighbour. Emily had never liked her—something about the way the woman always squinted at her, like she was sizing her up.
“Watch where you’re going, you little whirlwind,” Mrs. Higgins muttered, blocking the doorway.
“Sorry,” Emily mumbled.
The woman didn’t budge. “Funny, isn’t it? Your dad’s got brown eyes, your mum’s got blue, and you? Well. You don’t look much like either, do you? They’re tall—you’re barely up to my shoulder.”
“So what?” Emily shot back. “Kids don’t have to be carbon copies of their parents!” She didn’t mean to sound rude, but the way Mrs. Higgins was staring made her skin crawl. She glanced behind her, hoping someone else would come along, but the street was empty.
“They don’t,” the neighbour sighed. “But I’ve lived here since this block was built—knew your mum when she was a girl. Saw her get married, and two years later, she brought you home from the hospital.”
Emily shifted impatiently. “And?”
“And I never saw her pregnant.” Mrs. Higgins finally stepped aside, smirking. “Just food for thought.”
The front door slammed shut behind her, and Emily froze mid-step. Her face burned; her fingers turned to ice. *No, she’s just spiteful. Lonely, bitter…* But the words clung to her like frost.
Upstairs, she flipped through the family album—baby photos, first steps, her first-day-of-school grin half-hidden behind a bouquet. Mum and Dad smiling, always smiling at her.
Then the key turned in the lock.
“Em? Why’s it so dark in here?” Her dad flicked the light on. “You’ve been crying?” He sat beside her, taking the album.
“Dad…” Her voice wobbled. “Am I not yours?”
His face crumpled. That was all the answer she needed.
She bolted—no coat, no gloves—just ran until her lungs ached. Collapsed on a snow-dusted bench in the next street, sobbing.
“That bad, huh?”
She looked up. Ryan from Year 11 stood there, hands in his pockets.
“Come on,” he said. “You’ll freeze out here.”
At his flat, he shoved fluffy slippers at her, draped a chunky jumper over her shoulders, and made tea. “So? What’s the crisis?”
She spilled it all—Mrs. Higgins, her dad’s silence.
Ryan snorted. “And that’s enough to make you run? They hit you? Drink? Neglect you?”
“No! They’re—they’re *good* to me.”
“Then who cares?” He leaned against the counter. “Parents aren’t who made you. They’re who *raised* you.”
“But he couldn’t even look at me!”
“And what’ll you do now? Find your ‘real’ mum?” His voice turned cold. “What if she’s a mess? What if she doesn’t *want* you?”
Emily flinched.
“Look,” he sighed. “I know this song. My mum died having me. The midwife took me in. Found out last year.” He met her eyes. “Be grateful for what you’ve got.”
She was quiet a long time. Then—”I should go home.”
Ryan nodded.
She ran back, numb to the cold. The door flew open before she even rang—her mum, tear-streaked, arms outstretched.
Emily crashed into her. “I’m *sorry*.”
Her dad hugged them both, tight.
Teenagers feel everything too much—love, anger, hurt. They leap before they look.
But tonight, Emily landed softly.
