Twice a week, my father would leave the house for hours, returning full of energy and in high spirits. Soon, his secret was revealed.
I was ten then, my older brother twelve. He spent his days playing in the yardwe didnt get along much. I helped Mum with chores. Dad worked at the factory, coming home late in the evening. Mum set the table, we sat down for supper, and then Dad would slip into his polished leather shoes, linger before the mirror, and leave without a word. After hed gone, Mum would glare at the door, seething. I wondered where he went and why she reacted like that. Later, hed return in the best of moods. Curious, I asked Mum why she was so cross when he left.
She said he had another woman. I couldnt believe itId seen how much he loved her. He wasnt capable of such a thing. The next time he slipped out, I followed. He walked toward the Royal Opera House and stepped inside. I hesitated, unsure whether to enter, when a hand touched my shoulder. Turning, I saw a beautiful womana famous actress I recognised. She led me in. The hall was packed with spectators.
There, on stage, was my father. I never knew he was an opera singer. And what a voice he had. He performed an aria, unaware I sat in the back row, tears of joy in my eyes. When he finished, the applause was thunderous. He stood there, flowers in his arms. After the concert, we strolled through Hyde Park, giddy, before heading home. I whispered to Mum, *He doesnt have a womanhe goes to the theatre.* And she whispered back, *I know.*
