She looked at me. The classic, sharp, motherly squint. I followed her into the kitchen.
‘Remember those baby albums you keep under lock and key like a national treasure?’
“The ones you always try to hide in your purse when I’m not looking? Yes.”
‘Mum, don’t start.’
‘You can look at them here.’
I raised both hands in a sign of surrender.
“Okay. Just…let me look at them. Please.”
She opened the hall wardrobe and pulled out a dusty box labelled ‘Emily – 1990-1995’. I sat on the floor like a child again and flipped through page after page.
And there it was.
My picture. A chubby one-year-old baby sitting on a carousel horse. And behind me, clear as day… that very same sign: ‘Luna Park.’ My hands shook.
‘Mum… where was this done?’
She looked round, carelessly at first. But then her expression changed.
“О. It must have been before we moved.”
‘Moved from where?’
“From out of town. You were just a little girl. We weren’t there long.”
I looked at the picture again. Then pulled an envelope out of my bag. The one that had been addressed to E.H.
“I found these letters. Dozens of them. In that very house. In the very one you’re looking at right now. In the photograph. Here.” I pointed my finger.
Mum didn’t say anything.
“Mum… initials. E.H. That’s you, isn’t it? Emily H****r. They match.”
“Lots of people have initials like that. Don’t be dramatic.”
‘You knew Eliot, didn’t you?’
‘Enough.’
“Just tell me the truth. Who was he?”
Mum turned to the sink, slamming the spoon down.
‘Leave it out.’
“I can’t. I saw you looking at that picture. You remember everything. And you’re hiding something.”
She gripped the edge of the counter. Her shoulders tensed.
“I was young. Things were complicated. That man…he…”
She turned round, her face flushed.
“He left! Left without saying a word. I waited for months. I was pregnant and alone. What was I supposed to do!”
I looked at my mum. My voice came out in a whisper.
‘Elliot… is he my father?’
Her jaw clenched. For a second, she stopped breathing.
‘You told me he was dead!’
“I lied! What kind of mother would tell her daughter that her father ran away and disappeared!”
‘But mum, I had a right to know…’
“Oh, you had a right? I raised you alone. I worked double shifts, wiped your tears and celebrated every birthday. So yes, I decided what rights you had!”
“He’s old now. He’s lonely. He thinks he has no family…”
‘It’s his fault!’
“But you don’t know why he left! You know, you’re not easy to deal with either.”
“Damn it, Emily. That’s enough! Take the pictures and leave before I say something I’ll regret later.”
“He’s written you dozens of letters! You need to talk to him. You’ve been alone your whole life for a reason, right?”
‘NO!’
‘But Mum…’
“You wanted a father? Well, congratulations. You’ve found him. But don’t you dare drag me into this story.”
‘Come on, Mum…’
But she was already gone. The door to the bedroom slammed shut with such force that picture frames rattled on the walls. I stood there, holding a photograph in my hands. Just the day before, Eliot had been the lonely old man I’d been making tea for.
Now, finally, he was a man who had walked out on a pregnant woman. Whatever happened, I had to know the truth.
But what would I say? Did he even know…that he had a daughter?
The answers were probably in those letters. But they were meant for Mum, not me.
So I just left them on the table.
And I left.
I walked into the nursing home just as I always did: nametag fastened, hair tucked back, trainers squeaking on the tiles. Routine helped make everything easier to bear. Even this.
Elliot sat in his usual chair, munching on a stale biscuit like it was a personal insult.
I knocked lightly on the doorframe and smiled.
‘You have a visitor tonight, Elliot.’
He didn’t even look up.
“A visitor? What, is it my probation officer? Or has someone finally dug up my long-lost fortune?”
“No. The real thing. I’ll go get them.”
‘I hope they brought real biscuits and not this crap.’
In the locker room, I pulled off my clothes and pulled on a soft dress. When I stepped inside again, Elliot didn’t look up.
“Took you a long time to get ready. And what kind of dress is that? Do you think it’s prom night?”
I sat down across from him. His gaze darted upward and finally stopped on me.
‘I’m your guest, Elliot.’
He leaned back slightly with suspicion.
“What is this, some kind of interference? Is this about the chocolate I keep under my bed?”
I almost smiled. “No. It’s about the letters. The ones you write every Saturday. I…I read one.”
‘You what!’
“I know I had no right to. But I found her. The woman you’ve been writing to all this time. E.H.”
“It’s none of your business. You can’t just take things that don’t belong to you! It’s-“