The Other Daughter
Irina’s father was fifteen years older than her mother. He dressed strictly, even old-fashioned—always in trousers, a shirt, a blazer, or a jumper. No trainers or T-shirts. He was nothing like her friends’ dads, and Irina adored him. When he came home from work, she would rush to meet him, and he’d scoop her into his arms, gazing into her eyes.
“How was my princess’s day?”
She loved when he called her that. Wrapped in his arms, she’d breathe in that unforgettable scent—the best in the world, the smell of happiness: a mix of cologne, cigarettes, and something else she couldn’t name.
“Aren’t I a princess too?” her mum would pout playfully, fishing for compliments. Dad would hold Irina with one arm and pull her mum close with the other, kissing her cheek.
“You’re both my favourite princesses.”
Irina happily played along, and this little ritual repeated every day.
As she grew older, the game faded. She still greeted her father when he returned, but no longer with squeals and puppy-like joy—just a restrained, “Hi, Dad.”
“Hello,” he’d reply, hanging his coat without quite looking at her.
She didn’t want him lifting her like a child anymore, but why wouldn’t he meet her eyes like before? Why didn’t he call her princess?
“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 repair shop.” He’d smooth his hair and walk past her. Irina knew he was lying. Clients willing to pay double for urgent appliance fixes were rare—most waited to avoid extra charges. Lately, though, he’d been staying late often, returning quiet and distracted. No flowers anymore. Even on weekends, he’d disappear for hours. Something was off.
This time, he was late again.
“Hi. How was school? Is Mum home?”
He asked without really looking at her, just going through the motions. She didn’t reply. They said even little girls had intuition, and hers screamed that something had changed. Her mum’s red-rimmed eyes, the forced conversations—none of it was normal.
His scent was different on those “late” days. He seemed guilty, tense. The flat felt charged, like a storm brewing. Irina finally confided in her mum.
“People go through rough patches. If they love each other, it passes,” her mum said reluctantly.
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they separate. Try to find happiness elsewhere. It doesn’t always work.”
“Do you and Dad still love each other?”
“Those are complicated questions. Not everything has simple answers.” Her mum grew irritable, and Irina retreated to her room.
Had her parents grown tired of each other? Did that mean they were tired of her too? Would they divorce? Too many questions, no answers.
That summer, they didn’t go on holiday. Dad stayed to work while Irina and her mum visited Gran’s cottage. He never came on weekends like before. One evening, Irina overheard Gran scolding her mum.
“You left him alone in the city? The family’s hanging by a thread, and you gave him free rein?”
“Mum, don’t break my heart. I can’t chain him. Whatever happens, I’ll handle it.”
“F foolish woman. Men like him don’t grow on trees. For Irina’s sake, at least try.”
“Gran, what’s going on? Is Dad leaving us?” Irina burst into the kitchen.
“Eavesdropping? This is grown-up talk. No one’s leaving. We’re discussing a TV show.”
“Right. A show. I’m not a kid anymore!”
“Then act like it and stay out of it.”
Dad finally came to fetch them two weeks later. Irina was thrilled; her mum had dressed up, done her hair. But the air between them still crackled. Tiny questions, one-word answers. The tension thickened daily.
Irina loved December— her birthday mid-month, then New Year’s. After school, she and her friends went to see a comedy. They left the cinema giddy, quoting jokes and laughing.
Snow fluttered down, the city glowing with festive lights. A towering tree stood in the square, shop windows twinkling.
“Don’t wanna go home yet. Ice cream?” asked Emily.
“In this weather? You’ll get tonsillitis, and Ryan will dance with Sophie at the party.” The girls giggled, teasing Emily over her crush.
Just then, Irina spotted her father. She froze. Beside him walked a girl her age.
“Hide me,” she whispered, ducking behind Emily.
Her dad passed without noticing.
“That’s your dad!” Rachel gasped. “Who’s that with him?”
Irina watched them disappear, then hurried after them. Maybe she was wrong? No—that was his coat. He bent to say something, and she saw his profile. Definitely him. Had they been to the cinema? Who was she?
They boarded a tram before Irina could follow. She trudged home, doubts gnawing at her. If no one would tell her the truth, she’d demand answers.
But she didn’t get the chance. That evening, fever spiked, her throat burning. By the time she recovered, her father was gone. Her mum refused to explain. “Not now. Later.”
So Irina went to his workplace. She waited outside, then approached as he left.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Irina? What are you doing here? Is your mum okay?” He looked stunned, frail.
“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.”
“If I’m grown, tell me why you left. Do you have another woman?”
His shoulders slumped. He traced an invisible stain on the tablecloth.
“You deserve the truth. Your mum asked me to leave. Years ago, before her, I was with someone. It wasn’t serious. Then I met your mum, forgot all about her. But that woman… she tracked me down. Dying. Said she had a daughter—mine. Natalie.”
“That girl I saw?”
“Yes. She had no one else. I told your mum, begged her to let Natalie live with us. She refused, worried you’d resent it. Told me to go.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“I was ashamed. Would you have forgiven me?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“I still love your mum. She won’t speak to me. Natalie’s my daughter too. What choice did I have?”
“I don’t know. I need time.” She left, her cake untouched.
At home, she confronted her mum.
“I know about Natalie.”
Her mum exhaled. “How is he?”
“Awful. He loves you. That woman never told him about the baby.”
Her mum stared out the window. “Why did you send him away? I love him too. Now everyone’s miserable—except her! I hate you!”
The words erupted before she could stop them. Her mum flinched, tears spilling.
“Mum, I’m sorry—”
Her mum whispered, “I haven’t lived since he left.”
“Then let’s go to him. Now.”
They did. He answered the door, stunned. Natalie was taller, a college student. They talked—no blame, just pain. For now, things stayed as they were.
Three years later, he died. The sisters only grew close after the funeral. Grief united them.
Soon, Natalie married, moved away. They still called on birthdays and New Year’s.
“I had a son! A big, healthy boy. I named him Victor—after Dad. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.” Irina lied.
She’d wanted to name her son Victor. Always one step ahead, that Natalie. But she laughed it off. Life was too short for grudges.
Some things couldn’t be fixed, but forgiveness? That was up to them.
People tire. They hurt each other. But love? If it’s real, they find their way back.
And sometimes, if they’re lucky, they stay.
