The Other Daughter
Irina’s father was fifteen years older than her mother. He dressed formally, even a bit old-fashioned—always in trousers, a shirt, a jacket, or a jumper. No trainers or T-shirts in sight. He wasn’t like her friends’ dads at all. And Irina adored him. When he came home from work, she’d sprint to greet him, and he’d scoop her up in his arms, peering into her eyes as he asked:
“How was my princess’s day?”
She loved when he called her that. She’d hug him tight, breathing in that unmistakable scent—the best smell in the world, the smell of happiness: a mix of cologne, cigarettes, and something else she couldn’t name.
“And what about me? Aren’t I a princess too?” her mum would pout, fishing for compliments. Her dad, balancing Irina on one arm, would wrap the other around Mum, kiss her cheek, and say:
“You’re both my favourite princesses.”
Irina happily played along with this little ritual, which repeated every day.
As she grew older, the game faded on its own. She still met her dad at the door, but there was no more squealing or puppy-like joy—just a quiet, “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi,” he’d reply, hanging his coat on the rack, oddly avoiding her gaze.
She didn’t want him to pick her up like a little kid anymore, but why wouldn’t he look her in the eyes? Why had he stopped calling her princess?
“You stayed late at work again?” she asked.
“Yeah. What can I do? That’s the job.”
“What job?”
“I’m the boss, even if it’s just a small workshop.” He smoothed his hair and walked past her into the living room. Irina knew he was lying. He wasn’t at work. Big deal—manager of an appliance repair shop. Sure, sometimes a customer needed a fridge or hoover fixed urgently, but people willing to pay double for speed were rare. Most preferred to wait rather than shell out extra. Yet lately, he’d been “working late” often, coming home without flowers. Even on weekends, he’d disappear for hours, returning quiet and distracted. Irina sensed secrecy and lies in all of it.
This time was no different.
“Hi. How was school? Is Mum home?”
He asked without really looking at her. She knew these were empty questions, asked out of habit, so she didn’t answer. They say even little girls have intuition, and hers was screaming that something was wrong. Her parents barely spoke these days, and when they did, it was strained. Mum’s eyes were often red. They didn’t fight in front of her, but the jokes had stopped.
And Dad smelled different on the days he “worked late.” Guilty. Unhappy. The flat felt like a storm brewing.
Once, Irina confided in Mum.
“People go through rough patches. But if they love each other, it passes,” Mum said reluctantly.
“What if they don’t?”
“Then they split up. Try to find happiness elsewhere. Doesn’t always work.”
“Do you and Dad still love each other?”
“You ask such difficult questions. Not everything has a simple answer,” Mum snapped. Irina shut down, retreating to her room.
So, her parents were tired of each other. But what did that mean for her? Were they tired of her too? Did they still love her? Were they getting divorced? Too many questions, no answers.
That summer, they didn’t go on holiday. Dad was “busy,” so Mum took Irina to Grandma’s cottage. Dad didn’t visit, like he used to. Irina overheard Grandma scolding Mum:
“You left him alone in the city? The family’s hanging by a thread, and you gave him free rein!”
“Mum, please. I won’t chain him to me. Whatever happens, happens. I’m ready.”
“Fool. Men like him don’t grow on trees. For Irina’s sake, you could’ve toughed it out. Why hand him over to some—”
“Gran, what are you talking about? Is Dad leaving us?” Irina burst in.
“Eavesdropping? Stay out of grown-up talk. No one’s leaving. We’re discussing a soap opera.”
“Right. A soap opera. Am I stupid?”
“Go away, don’t meddle,” Gran shooed her.
“I’m not a kid. I get it.”
“Then act like it and let them sort it out.”
Two weeks later, Dad finally came to take them home. Irina was thrilled; Mum even dressed up. But the tension between them crackled like exposed wires. Mum asked small questions; Dad answered in monosyllables or stayed silent. Every day, the air grew heavier.
Irina loved December. Her birthday was mid-month, followed by New Year’s—her favourite holidays.
After school, she and her friends went to see a comedy. They left the cinema giddy, quoting lines and laughing. Snow fell outside, the streets lit with festive lights. A towering Christmas tree stood in the square.
“Don’t wanna go home yet. Fancy ice cream?” Lena asked.
“In this weather? You’ll catch a cold, and then Rob will dance with Sipyagina at the New Year’s party.” The girls giggled, teasing Lena about her crush.
Lena huffed, ready to leave—until Irina spotted her dad. She ducked behind Lena. “Hide me.”
“What? Why?”
“Just stay still!”
Dad walked past with a girl Irina’s age.
“That’s your dad!” Raya whispered. “Who’s that?”
Irina stared, then hurried after them. No mistake—that was his coat. He leaned down, saying something to the girl. His profile was unmistakable. Who was she? Did Mum know?
They boarded a tram before Irina could follow. She walked home, heart pounding with questions. Enough secrets. She’d demand answers.
But before she could, she fell ill. By the time she recovered, Dad had moved out. Mum refused to explain. “Not now. Later.”
So Irina went to his workplace. She waited, then approached as he left.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Irina? What’s wrong? Is Mum—”
“She’s fine. I came to see you.”
They sat in a café. He ordered her favourite cake and tea.
“How’s school? You’ve grown up,” he said.
“If I’m grown up, tell me why you left. Do you have another woman?”
He slumped, staring at the tablecloth. “Your mum asked me to go. There was… someone before her. It wasn’t serious. But after I met your mum, I forgot about her. Then she reappeared. She was ill—dying. Said she had a daughter. Mine.”
“That girl I saw?”
“Yes. Natasha. Her mum died. I told your mum, begged her to let Natasha live with us. But she refused. Said it’d hurt you. So I left.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“I was ashamed. Would you have forgiven me?”
“I don’t know.” She stood. “I need to think.”
He didn’t stop her. She left untouched cake behind, fury boiling inside. They’d decided everything without her. Maybe if he’d spoken to her, she’d have understood. Maybe she’d have even liked having a sister.
At home, she confronted Mum, who sighed. “I knew you’d find out. How is he?”
“Not great. Older. Thinner. He says he’s always loved you.”
Mum exhaled, eyes on the window.
“Why did you make him leave? I love him too! Now everyone’s miserable—except that other girl. I hate you!”
The words spilled out before she could stop them. Mum flinched, tears falling.
“Mum, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”
Mum hugged her tight. “I haven’t lived since he left.”
“Then let’s go get him!”
“Now?”
“Yes!”
Mum hesitated, then nodded.
Dad answered the door, stunned. Natasha was older, studying accounting. They talked properly at last, but nothing changed yet.
Three years later, Dad died. The sisters only bonded after the funeral. Grief united them—two princesses, one father.
Natasha married and moved away, but they kept in touch.
“I had a son! Named him Victor, after Dad. You mind?”
“No,” Irina lied. She’d wanted that name. Always one step ahead, that Natasha. But she called back later, congratulating her properly. Who’s stopping her from naming her own son Victor? If she ever has one.
Life’s too short for grudges. Some things you can’t control. But what you can, you must: forgive, say what matters. Family’s everything—even if it’s messy. People tire of each other, but if they love, they find their way back. Because without each other, they’re just pretending to be happy.
Be kind.
