My father would leave the house twice a week for a few hours, returning full of energy and in a splendid mood. Soon, his secret was revealed.
I was ten at the time, and my older brother, Thomas, was twelve. He spent his days playing in the yardwe didnt get along muchwhile I helped Mum with chores. Dad worked at a factory, coming home late in the evening. Mum would set the table, and wed sit down for supper. Afterwards, Dad would slip on his polished leather shoes, linger by the mirror, and leave without a word. Mum would glare at the door in silent fury. I wondered where he went and why it upset her so. Later, hed return in high spirits. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked Mum why she was cross when he left.
She claimed he had a mistress. I couldnt believe it. Id seen how deeply he loved herhed never do such a thing. The next time he left, I followed. He strode toward the Royal Opera House and slipped inside. I hesitated, unsure whether to enter, when a hand touched my shoulder. Turning, I saw a striking womannone other than the famous soprano, Eleanor Whitmore. She escorted me in, and inside, I found a hall packed with spectators.
There, on stage, stood my father. Id no idea he was an opera singerand a brilliant one at that. He performed an aria, never noticing me in the back row, tears of joy in my eyes. When he finished, the applause was thunderous. Bouquets were handed to him as he bowed. Afterward, we strolled through Hyde Park, giddy with delight, before heading home. I whispered to Mum, “He doesnt have a mistresshes at the theatre.” She smiled and murmured back, “I know.”
