THE STEPFATHER.
From the time she was little, Emily knew her mother had “found her in a cabbage patch.” The kind old ladies who seemed to live permanently on the bench outside their flat had enlightened her. Emily imagined her petite, delicate mother, Lucy, carrying her in the hem of a party dress, as if she had appeared out of nowhere.
“That’s because you don’t have a dad!” declared Margaret importantly, the girl who lived in the flat above. “You’re a fatherless child!”
“What does that mean?” Emily wondered.
“It’s obvious! Your mum fooled around and had you! No dad for you! But I’ve got one!” Margaret lifted her chin proudly.
“So what?” Emily shrugged. “I’ve got Gran and Grandad! You don’t.”
“Ha! Gran and Grandad don’t count! A woman needs a man! Without one, she’s incomplete! That’s what my mum says!”
That evening, after supper, Emily curled up beside her mother on the sofa, as they always did. It was their ritual—sitting together, each busy with their own quiet tasks. Lucy was always crafting—sewing, knitting, embroidering—and Emily, watching her, picked up the habit too, threading bead bracelets, assembling diamond paintings, or shaping clay animals.
“Mum, do I really need a dad?” Emily ventured, listening to the commotion above. The nightly “performance,” as Gran called it, was starting. It came from Margaret’s father, Uncle Jack. You could tell his mood by the noise—if only he was shouting and the women whimpered, he’d been drinking. If the screams came from both sides, he was sober, and that made him angrier.
“Well, since we’ve managed fine without one, I’d say no,” Lucy smiled, stroking Emily’s hair, her ears still tuned to the ceiling.
“But Margaret says a woman without a man is incomplete…”
“Darling, everyone finds their own way. Do we live badly?”
“No,” Emily shook her head. They really did live well. Lucy worked as an accountant for a big firm, earning enough to take Emily out every weekend—cafés, cinemas, the theatre, parks, or just shopping. Every summer, they went to the seaside, and every New Year, they visited the countryside where Lucy’s friend Aunt Julie lived. Aunt Julie had three children, and every winter, their father would build a huge snow slide in the yard for them.
The “performance” upstairs escalated. The obscenities Uncle Jack shouted were probably heard across the whole building. Half an hour later, Lucy sighed and went to the hallway. The finale was approaching. A door slammed upstairs, hurried footsteps rushed down, and suddenly, Aunt Kate and Margaret burst into their flat.
“Lock it!” Aunt Kate shrieked, though Lucy was already doing just that. Fists pounded on the door.
“Lucy! Open up!” roared a slurred voice. “Open or I’ll break it down! Where’s that little—? I’ll snap her legs!”
“If you don’t leave now, I’m calling the police,” Lucy said calmly. She was used to these threats—and so was he. She’d called them before. One more time, and he’d be locked up.
“Don’t, Lucy!” Kate pleaded, hovering in the hall. “They’ll arrest him!”
“About time.” Lucy went to put the kettle on.
“But—how will I manage without a man?” Kate fretted. “Being alone—look at you, it’s not right!”
Lucy stopped and looked at her. Her dressing gown was torn, her hair wild, her eyes feverish. A bruise was forming under one.
“I’m not alone, Kate. I’ve got Emily. And no bruises. And I don’t sleep on neighbours’ sofas.”
“Proud of that, are you?” Kate scoffed. “That girl of yours is growing up wild, no discipline! Who knows what she’ll turn into? And bruises—if he hits you, it means he loves you! Besides—couples fight, it’s just fun! We’ll be cuddling tomorrow! While you’ll still be alone in that cold bed!”
Lucy shook her head. Same conversation. Same excuses.
Emily started Year One when Uncle William appeared. He was stocky, quiet, serious. At first, Emily worried her mother would forget her—Margaret had “warned” her.
“Ha! You think that bloke’s your dad now? You’re not his! Men don’t want other men’s kids! He’ll knock your mum up, and you’ll be either a servant or packed off to care!”
“Margaret!” Uncle Jack’s drunken bellow carried from the balcony. “Get home, you brat! Dishes aren’t done, house is a mess! Want your mum doing it after work?”
Uncle Jack had been jobless for a month, drowning his sorrows from dawn. Margaret scurried inside.
But William defied Margaret’s prophecy. He treated Emily kindly. He was an engineer at Lucy’s firm, with a big, sleek car that now carried them to all their weekend trips—even to the seaside and Aunt Julie’s for New Year.
He played with Emily, bought her toys and pretty dresses, stood up to the bullies in the playground, and in the evenings, sat with them on the sofa, watching “his girls” craft.
When Lucy and William married in a small pub gathering, he crouched to Emily’s height and smiled.
“You can call me Dad.”
And she did—joyfully. But when Aunt Kate heard, she cackled.
“Dad? He’s your stepdad! Your mum’s got a husband now, but you still don’t have a father!”
Kate resented William. Once he moved in, her refuge vanished.
“Kate, you’ve got your own flat—sleep there. Or book a hotel. This isn’t a shelter,” William said calmly when she knocked one night, fleeing Jack’s rage.
“Who do you think you are?” Kate screeched down the corridor. “Bossing me around! I’ll get my husband—he’ll put you in your place!”
“Why?” William crossed his arms. “There he is now. Let’s talk.”
Jack lunged—but William barely moved, just shoved him back so hard he toppled.
“Murderer!” Kate wailed, scrambling to Jack. She glared at William. “I’ll have you arrested!”
“Fine,” he nodded. “But keep it down—people are trying to sleep through your racket.”
A few more times, Jack and Kate tried to reclaim their old routine—evening rows and refuge at Lucy’s—but William barred them, and they slunk away, cursing.
The estate began respecting—fearing—William. When he stepped out of his car, the bench gossips fell silent, forcing smiles.
“Afternoon, Mr. Thompson!”
Only Emily, ignoring them all, would shout across the courtyard:
“Daddy’s home!”—and fling herself into his arms. His stern face melted as he carried her inside.
“He’s not your dad!” Margaret hissed every time.
“You know,” Emily said one day, eyeing her friend’s frayed dress and faded backpack. They were finishing school now, still oddly friends.
“He might not be my birth father, but he’s never shouted at me. He cares, protects us, loves me and Mum. He’d do anything to make us happy. What has your *real* dad ever done for you?”
