Dear Diary,
Today I felt the weight of the house pressing down on me. When Father left, Mother began to weep, and her tears drummed on the walls until dawn. I tried to sleep, woke, fell asleep again, only to hear her sniffles echoing through the night. When I asked, Mum, are you crying because of Dad? she brushed it off, saying it was just a cold, but Im old enough to know a cold doesnt turn your voice into a river of tears.
Later, Father sat with me at a little tea shop on Baker Street, stirring the alreadycooled black tea in a tiny porcelain cup. The bowl of icecream in front of mebright coloured scoops crowned with a mint leaf and a cherry, all drizzled in chocolatewould have made any sixyearold swoon. But I, Milly, didnt touch it. Last Friday Id decided it was time for a serious talk with him.
Father was quiet for what felt like ages before he finally asked,
What shall we do, love? Stop seeing each other? How will I manage then?
I wrinkled my nosejust like Mums, a little potatoshaped tipand answered,
No, Dad. I cant be without you either. Lets make a deal. Call Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Well go for a stroll, and if you fancy a coffee or a sundae (I glance at the bowl), we can sit here together. Ill tell you everything about how Mum and I get on.
I paused, thought a moment longer, then added,
If you want to check on Mum, Ill record her on my phone each week and show you the videos. Does that sound good?
Fathers eyes softened. He gave a small smile, nodded, and said,
Alright, lets try it.
A sigh of relief escaped me, and I finally dug into my icecream. Yet the conversation wasnt finished; I needed to say the most important thing. When the colourful sprinkles settled on my upper lip, I licked them clean, grew serious, and almost felt like an adultlike a woman who must look after her man, even if that man is getting on in years. Fathers birthday had just passed, and at nursery Id drawn him a card, painstakingly colouring a huge 28.
My face grew solemn again; I furrowed my brows and said,
I think you should get married
I added, with a generous lie,
After all, youre not that old yet
Father chuckled at my kindhearted gesture and replied,
Youd also call me not that old
Encouraged, I went on,
Not at all! Uncle Sergey, whos visited Mum twice, is even a bit balding. Look I pointed to my forehead, smoothing my soft curls with my hand. I watched his eyes narrow, as if Id just let slip a family secret. I pressed both palms to my mouth, widened my eyes to mimic shock and confusion.
Father, raising his voice a touch, shouted across the café,
Uncle Sergey? Whos this Sergey you keep mentioning? Is he Mums boss?
I I dont know, I stammered, suddenly shy. Maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets, a cake for everyone, and I hesitated, wondering whether I should tell Father about the flowers Mum sent, especially to a man who seemed inadequate.
Father clasped his hands on the table, stared at them for a long while, and I sensed that, in that very instant, he was about to make a decision that would shape his life. I, a little girl, knewwell, guessedthat men can be slow to act, and it falls to a woman, perhaps the most cherished one, to nudge them in the right direction.
Silence stretched on. Finally, Father exhaled dramatically, loosened his fingers, lifted his head, and spoke. If I were older, I might have recognised the tragic tone of Othellos lament to Desdemona, but I hadnt yet learned Shakespeare; I only knew that life was a mix of joy and petty woes.
He said,
Come on, Milly. Its late; Ill take you home and have a word with Mum.
I didnt ask what he intended to discuss, but I sensed its importance. I hurried to finish my icecream, then, realizing his decision outweighed even the tastiest treat, I flung my spoon onto the table, slid off my chair, wiped my sticky lips with the back of my hand, and looked straight at him.
Im ready. Lets go.
We didnt stroll home; we practically ran. Father led, hand firmly gripping mine, as if he were a prince bearing his banner into battle. When we burst into the lift, the doors sighed shut, carrying a neighbour up to the flat above.
Father glanced at me, a little bewildered. I stared back, resolute, and asked,
So? What now? Who are we waiting for? This is only the seventh floor.
He scooped me up, sprinted up the stairs, and when the lift doors finally opened, Mother stood there, eyes wide. Father launched straight into it:
You cant do this! Whos Sergey? I love you, and we have Milly
He held us both in a tight embrace, Mother and I leaning into his chest, closing our eyes because adults, after all, tend to kiss in moments like these.
