Do you even know what youre doing? Helens voice hissed, halfshout, halfsnarl. Youve brought her a packet of sweetsonce every six months. How thoughtful, Daddy! A real paragon of paternal generosity. Is that all you can manage? Show up, hand over a few treats and saunter off, ignoring every other bit of fatherly duty? Do you have any idea how we survive? Ever asked? Brought any money? Not a single pound! All you do is pop up now and then so I dont forget youre Dad. A good, kind father who, because I cant leave the shop early, drags a packet of candies to a child who spends her days alone.
It had never happened before that Helen argued with Mark in front of Emily. Now Helen was desperate to keep the conversation out of her daughters ears, but the thin walls of the council flat didnt quite cooperate
***
Twelve square metres, a cramped room with a battered desk in the corner. Scattered pencils, a crooked paper cutout and a stack of textbooks opened at random lay on the surface.
This was the room Emily shared with her toys, where she spent the lions share of her solitary evenings. She was seven, yet shed grown used to being on her own, especially after dark. School was a bustling placefriends, a favourite seatmate, a neighbours kid but at home it was just her.
She was wrestling with a maths workbook. Numbers swam before her eyes; she was tired, clueless, and could not hand in a blank page. No one was there to help, and she had no clue when Helen would get home or whether shed even have the time.
Everything was a solo effort. Homework, the walk home through two backstreets where ancient swings creaked in the wind, reheating yesterdays soup on the stove. And now, maths.
Five plus three thats eight. Write eight, she mouthed, penciling the answer.
In her head a voice seemed to nudge her:
Youre big enough, Emily. Pull yourself together.
She did, because Helen was at workagain. From dawn till late, always. A mother who tried, who loved, who could rarely just be a mother.
Suddenly, thin voices drifted up from the stairwella muffled argument, perhaps. Emily froze, pencil hovering. Someone knocked on the flats door. Helen and someone else.
With the caution only a sevenyearold can muster, Emily crept to her bedroom door, eased it open, and peered into the dim corridor.
In stepped two figures. Helen stood by the flats entrance, her hair, usually tied up, pushed to one side. Beside her was Mark, the father who hadnt lived with them for a couple of years. The man whose shiny black car occasionally turned up in the driveway, sparking a strange mix of Helens nerves and a vague, uncomfortable anticipation. In the six months since his last visit, Emily had almost forgotten she even had a dad.
Mark clutched a bright red parcel that stood out against the grey concrete of the stairwell.
Helen hung her coat on a hook. Mark slammed the flats door behind him.
Emily! Helen called, her tone soft, then snapping as she glanced at Mark, We have a visitor.
Emily slipped out, eyes locked on the red packet. Mark, spotting his daughter, grinned a showoff smile and cooed:
Hello, princess! he said, thrusting the parcel forward. Here you gotreats Ive saved up just for you.
She took the packet gingerly. It was heavy; through a translucent film she could see shiny wrappers. Candies! In their house sweets were a rarity, a celebration usually reserved for Grandmothers visits or a school fête. Yet here was a whole packet, and Emily, forgetting everything else, ripped open a candyher favourite Bear bar.
Thanks, Dad! she blurted, mouth halffull, and dove back in for more.
Helen watched, her expression the one Emily had learned to read: not approval, not joy, certainly not delight at seeing her exhusband. Something more complicated lived behind her eyes.
Mark, lets go to the living room, Helen said, taking his arm and, ignoring Emilys candyfilled enthusiasm, ushered him deeper into the flat.
Emily, feeling her presence slipping into the background, retreated to her room, but she heard everything.
You do realise what youre doing? Helens voice, now a hiss, cut through the hallway. You bring her sweets once every six months. What a caring father! Thats all? Show up, hand over a packet and trot off, ignoring any real responsibility? Do you even know our situation? Ever asked? Brought any money? Not a single pound! All you do is pop up now and then so I dont have to remind the kid youre Dad. A good, kind father who brings a child who spends days alone a packet of sweets because I cant leave the shop!
Helen had never before taken a stand with Mark in front of Emily. Now she was trying her hardest to keep the argument out of her daughters ears, but the walls were thin
***
Annaoh, come on, Mark started, but his words came out garbled, and Emily, ear pressed to the plaster, heard nothing.
No, Annacome on! she snapped. Im still paying off your loan! Your busted business! Remember whose name it was in the paperwork? Mine! And youre gallivanting somewhere, free as a bird. Not planning to settle your debts?
A rustle echoed.
I pay what I can, Marks voice faded, Money doesnt just appear. I help where I can. I could shower you with goldif I could.
Help? Helen shouted, You bring a child a packet of sweets and call that help? Fine, suppose you have no money. Sell the car. Pay off the loan.
How am I supposed to sell the car if I cant survive without it? This is all I earn. Without it Im stuck.
Cant help with moneythen sit with the child, Mark muttered.
Id come if I had the time, but I dont. Thats life.
Emily pressed her back against the wall, a shiver running down her spine. She was only seven, yet she understood. She understood that Dad had left, that debts were terrifying, that the onceproud business was now a burden. All because of him.
The candy in her hand suddenly tasted less sweet. Unfair! Yet, where had she ever seen a fair world?
***
Many years later.
A pink parcel and a bitter aftertaste.
The scene replayed.
Emily was no longer a sevenyearold. She was approaching thirty, a grown woman with a threeyearold daughter, Lucy, who was probably now scurrying around the flat, playing with a friend in a language only they understood.
A familiar knock sounded again at the door. And againDad.
This time there was no hallway drama. Helen had long since finished paying Marks loans. She had shouldered Emilys upbringing alone. Mark, having pocketed a decent share from the sale of their old flat (when Helen finally decided shed had enough waiting for miracles and moved into a modest terraced house, giving Mark a cut as compensation), still turned up every six months, a sight that no longer made Emily smile.
Hello, princess! Marks grin was as glossy as ever. In his hand was no longer a red packet but a bright pink one. A little treat for my granddaughter.
Emily forced a smile.
Hello, Dad. Come in.
She kept the conversation neutral, as she always did.
Lucy, hearing the unfamiliar voice, peeked out of the playroom. Spotting the pink parcel, she asked, Whos that?
Its granddad, Lucy. Remember? He gave you that Barbie last year, Emily replied. Granddad Mark.
Mark handed the parcel to Lucy.
Hey, love! Look what Ive got for you!
Lucy ripped it open to reveal a jumble of brightly coloured toy figurinesthe kind you get from promotional giveaways in supermarkets. Cheap junk, really.
You really havent changed a bit, Emily said, deadpan.
Why should I? Im perfect just the way I am, Mark chuckled, taking it as a compliment.
Emily knew hed never really helped her. No money for tutors when university loomed, no extra cash for a new coat when she was pulling night shifts to scrape together a few pounds. His help was always a token gift.
Im here you know, Mark said, settling into a chair that had seen better days, my son, Harry.
Emilys eyes widened. HarryMarks son from a second marriage, born in 2002. Shed only ever seen him in photographs, never met him, and never really wanted to.
Congratulations, she replied tersely, do you want me to take out a loan for his wedding?
Even the most unflappable Mark looked taken aback.
Id love to invite you
Im not going, Emily said.
Come on, Emily, Mark pleaded, Its family. Harry called you. He knows you exist. Just pop by for an hour. Itll do you good.
She wanted to scream, to hurl a kitchen knife at him, but she held back. Why? Shed never once told the father who he was. Harry, her supposed brother, had everything: the beloved son, the easy life. And she? She was the one whod worked, paid the mortgage, kept the lights on.
Fine, she said, Ill come.
***
The wedding was a lavish affair Emily could never afford, even with her husband. She sat at a distant table meant for colleagues and distant relatives, watching Harry, his bride Marinadelicate in an expensive white dressMark, who spent the whole night trying to appease the young couple.
When it was time for speeches, Mark stood, clutching a stack of papers rather than a gift.
Dear Harry and Marina, he began, today I want to wish you a happy birthday? Yes, thats it. May your lives be stormfree, and Ive prepared something for you
He handed Harry a set of keys.
Emily felt the room go dark. Shed never felt such a surge of hatred. All the years of grinding, paying off a mortgage on her modest terraced house, the mother whod covered Marks debts, the endless juggling of jobsnow Harry, whod always had everything, was handed a flat courtesy of the very man who never paid a penny.
Justice, then, she whispered.
She left, casting a glare of pure, simmering loathing at Mark and his newly formed family. In her head a venomous thought echoed: May this be your last happy day!
***
A month later, gossip reached Emily through the usual familywide WhatsApp group that somehow always knew everything. Harry had been mugged in an alley, left battered, unable to walk or speak. He survived, but lay in a hospital bed.
Mark hired a carer. Marina was pregnant, unable to lift heavy things, and eventually lost the baby in the fifth month. Mark was torn between his bedridden son and his grieving fiancée, finding solace only in his favourite whisky.
One night he shuffled into Emilys flat, barely able to stand, I just needed to talk.
Emily listened, nodding politely, while inside she felt nothing but a quiet, spiteful glee. Enjoy your happy little life, Dad.
She didnt press for details about his later days. She simply returned the debtif it could even be called that.
Time passed.
Emily visited the grave of her paternal grandmother, the one who had always been kinder to her than Mark ever was. At the foot of the stone, freshly dug, lay a modest marker for Harry.
Had a rough time, she noted, feeling neither sorrow nor angerjust a hollow emptiness. Her brother, whod never truly existed for her, was gone.
Later, Mark turned up again, now looking like a fiftysomething man who might as well be a grandfather.
Emily, he said, voice cracked, do you have a thousand pounds? Ill pay you backsoon.
When?
When I can.
You dont have to.
Emily agreed without protest, even feeling a tiny, perverse pleasure that hed fallen so low.
She never saw Mark again. Relatives told her hed sold his remaining properties, poured the money into a dubious cult, and his wifeHarrys motherhad returned to her homeland to mourn. Emily, meanwhile, had her own whitestripe life. She and her husband finally cleared their mortgage, even bought a second flat to let out. Occasionally, when she let herself drift back to the past, to Dad and his tangled family, a thought flickered: perhaps it was her own wishes that set these misfortunes in motion?
