Sleep in the attic, she said, referring to the child. You have a daughter. Shes seven.
Christopher barely caught the call. Emmas voice, after eight years of silence, crackled through the handset.
Emma? Is that you?
Yes. We need to meet. Its urgent.
But a daughter? What are you talking about?
Come to the café on Oxford Street. In an hour. Ill explain everything.
The office lights buzzed as Christopher froze, as if struck by lightning. A daughter? From Emma? They had split up eight years ago.
He called home, claiming hed be late at work. Emily, as usual, muttered something about dinner. James was probably glued to his computer again. Fifteen and only interested in video games.
Emma sat by the window, gaunt, dark circles under her eyes, a thin scarf pulled tight.
Hello, Christopher.
Hi. What whats happened to you?
Cancer. Stage four. I have two, maybe three months left.
Christopher sank into the opposite chair, his throat tightening.
God, Emma
Dont pity me. I didnt call you for sympathy. I have a daughter. Blythe. Your daughter.
How can she be mine? We were we were careful!
Sometimes plans go awry. I found out I was pregnant a month after we ended. Youd already gone back to Emily.
Why didnt you tell me?
Whats the point? You chose your family, your son. I didnt want to wreck that.
He fell silent, the memory of that year weighing on him. Hed been tired of Emilys endless complaints, money demands, newfangled gadgets. Hed met Emma lighthearted, carefree, asking for nothing but love.
Three months of bliss. Then Emily gave him an ultimatum either return to her or lose his son forever. James was seven then, sobbing, begging his father to come back.
He did. He never saw Emma again, never even said a proper goodbye a text was all he sent, declaring it over.
Show me a picture, he said.
Emma pulled out her phone. A girl with light hair, grey eyes, his eyes, stared back.
God shes a mirror of me as a child.
Yes. Stubborn, but kind, just like you.
Where is she now?
At home, with a neighbour. Christopher, Im dying. I have no relatives. If you dont acknowledge paternity, Blythe will be sent to a childrens home.
Of course Ill sign. Which childrens home? Shes my child!
And your wife? Your son?
Ill sort it out.
Think carefully, Christopher. This isnt a game. A child who will lose her mother, traumatised, frightened. Your family may not accept her.
Its my daughter. End of story.
Emmas tears fell silent, soundless.
Thank you. I was terrified youd refuse.
When can I see Blythe?
Now, if you like, but you should prepare and warn your family.
That evening, Christopher called a family meeting. Emily sat with a stonecold stare. James was buried in his phone.
I have a daughter, from another woman. Shes seven.
Silence. Then an explosion.
What? You cheated on me?
Eight years ago, when we were on the brink of splitting.
We werent on the brink! You ran off to a prostitute!
Emily, calm down. Emmas dying. The child will be left alone.
And what? Thats our problem?
Its my daughter!
A fake daughter! I wont let her in my house!
James looked up.
Dad, why does she matter to us?
Shes your sister.
Shes not my sister! Shes a stranger!
Christopher stared at his wife and son, strangers. When had they become strangers?
Ill take Blythe, with or without your consent.
Then choose us or her!
Emily, seriously?
Absolutely. Its either the family or your bastard.
Dont call my child that!
Ill call her what I want! In my house!
Its my house too.
Not for long.
A week later Emma was placed in hospice. Christopher arrived to collect Blythe.
The little girl stood in the hallway, a tiny suitcase in hand, thin, pale, eyes huge.
Good afternoon. Are you my father?
Yes, love. Im your dad.
Mum said youd take me.
I will. Youll live with me now.
And mum? Is she getting better?
Christopher sat down, shoulders slumped.
Blythe, mum is very ill. She might not recover.
Will she die?
Possibly.
She nodded, no tears, as if she already understood.
Ive packed a few things. Mum said youll buy new ones.
Ill buy whatever you want.
At home Emily met them in the hallway.
This is your little monster?
Emily, for the sake of the child!
What difference does it make? Let her know her place right away. Shell sleep in the attic.
In the attic? Have you lost your mind?
Where else? Theres no spare room.
In the guest room.
This is my office!
Now its a nursery.
Blythe pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide with terror.
Dad, maybe I should go to a childrens home?
No childrens homes! Youre my child, youll stay here.
Well see, Emily hissed.
The first week was hell. Emily ignored Blythe. James taunted her, calling her spaz. She ate after everyone else, slept on a foldout sofa in the guest room because Emily refused to buy a proper bed.
Why spend money? She might never fit in.
Christopher tried to protect his daughter, but work kept swallowing whole days. At home, it felt like a battlefield.
Emma died a month later. Christopher took Blythe to the funeral. She stood by the grave, lips bitten, eyes dry.
Dad, is mum in heaven?
Yes, love.
Can she see me?
Of course.
Then Ill be good, so she wont be sad.
Back home, things worsened. Emily openly tormented Blythe, refusing her food when Christopher was away, forcing her to clean the whole house. James joined in, hiding her things, ruining her notebooks.
Emily, stop! Shes a child!
Foreign child! Know your place!
Its my child!
Its your son, James! This is your mistake!
The turning point came three months later. Christopher came home early from work. The house erupted in shouting.
He rushed upstairs. In Jamess room, James was whipping Blythe with a belt.
Youll learn not to touch my stuff!
I didnt touch anything! Blythe sobbed.
Youre lying, you little witch!
Christopher burst in, snatched the belt, shoved James away.
What the hell are you doing, you monster?
He took my tablet!
It wasnt mine! Blythe shrank into a corner, bruised all over.
Even if she did, what right do you have to beat her?
Mom said we have to discipline her!
Mom said?
Christopher went downstairs. Emily was sipping tea in the kitchen.
You let him beat Blythe?
Discipline. Not taking what isnt yours.
Shes seven!
So what? Let her get used to it.
Thats enough. Im leaving, and Im taking Blythe.
Please, just remember James stays with me.
Let him stay. If youve raised a sadist, I dont need that son.
He packed his things in an hour. Blythe sat on the bed, trembling.
Dad, because of me?
No, love. Because of them. Were leaving.
What about my brother?
He isnt your brother. He wont act like a brother.
They rented a modest twobedroom flat on the outskirts. Blythes face lit up when she saw her own room.
Really mine?
Really. Well set it up however you want.
Can we have pink wallpaper?
You could have gold if you like.
Divorce was hard. Emily demanded everything. They split the house, sold the car, and Christopher paid a quarter of his salary in child support for James.
But Christopher didnt regret it. He watched Blythe blossom, stop being scared, start laughing.
At school she was shy at first, but a kind teacher helped her settle.
Dad, Ive made a friend!
Really? Whats her name?
Molly. She invited me to her birthday!
Great! Well get her a present.
A year later James called.
Dad, can we meet?
Why?
I need to talk.
They met in a park. James had grown, his eyes still sad.
Dad, Im sorry.
For what?
For Blythe. I was wrong.
I was.
Mum said she was foreign, that you left us because of her.
I didnt abandon you. I left the cruelty.
I know. Mum found a new man. He also raised me. A stepdad.
So?
I finally understood how Blythe felt. Can I see her?
Ill ask her.
Blythe hesitated, fear flickering, but Christopher persuaded her perhaps James had changed.
They met at a café. James brought a huge plush bear.
Blythe, Im sorry. I was a fool.
Its okay. Everyone makes mistakes.
Youre really my sister?
Yes. By blood.
Can we meet sometimes?
Blythe looked at her father, who nodded.
Only if you stop hitting her.
Never again. I promise!
They began to see each other, first rarely, then more often. James grew attached to his sister, defended her at school, helped with homework.
When he turned eighteen, he moved in with his father.
Mum, Im leaving.
To the traitor?
To dad. And my sister.
Shes not your sister!
She is. Youre just a nasty person.
Emily was left alone. Her new boyfriend left her for someone younger. James stopped calling. Christopher stopped paying child support his son was an adult.
In the cramped twobedroom flat, life was tight but happy. Blythe excelled at school. James went to university, doing parttime work.
One evening they all sat around the kitchen, tea steaming, laughter bubbling.
Dad, Blythe said, thank you for taking me.
Its my thanks to you, Christopher replied.
For what?
For being born. For showing me what truly matters.
Whats that?
Love. Not wealth, not status. Love.
James nodded.
Dads right. I realised that when Mum chose a new man over us.
Shes just unhappy, Blythe replied.
Why do you still defend her after everything?
Because bitterness destroys the one who holds it. Mum taught me that. Shes my real mother.
Christopher wrapped his arms around his daughter.
You had a good mother.
She did. But I have you, and a brother. Thats family too.
True family, James added.
And that was the truth. Blood didnt always make a family; choice did. The choice to stay together, despite everything.
