Dear Diary,
Dad, please dont come back to us any more. When you leave, Mum starts crying and she doesnt stop until the early hours. I drift off, wake up, drift off again, and shes still sobbing. I ask her, Mum, why are you crying? Because of Dad? She says she isnt crying at all, just blowing her nose because she has a cold. Im older now and I know a cold never makes one sound like theyre weeping.
Later, Dad sits across from me at a little tearoom in Manchester, stirring his lukewarm coffee with a tiny spoon in a dainty white cup. I havent even touched the icecream in front of mea proper masterpiece: colourful truffles covered with a leaf of mint and a cherry, all drizzled in chocolate. Any sixyearold would have swooned over that, but not Emily. Shed already, last Friday, decided it was time for a serious talk with Dad.
Dad stays silent for ages, then finally asks, What are we going to do, love? Stop seeing each other completely? How am I supposed to go on then?
Emily wrinkles her little nosejust like Mums, a tiny bit potatoshapedthinks a moment and replies, No, Dad. I cant manage without you either. Heres what well do: call Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Well have our walks, and if you fancy a coffee or an icecream (she glances at her bowl), we can sit in the tearoom. Ill fill you in on everything about how Mum and I live.
She pauses, then adds, If you ever want to check on Mum, Ill record her on my phone each week and show you the footage. Does that sound alright?
Dad gives her a small smile, nods and says, Alright, thatll be our new routine, dear.
Emily lets out a sigh of relief and finally starts on her icecream. Yet she isnt finished; she still has to say the most important thing. As the coloured sprinkles collect on the moustache shes grown around her nose, she licks them off, straightens up, and looks almost grownupalmost a woman who must look after her own man, even if that man is already getting on in years. Last week was Dads birthday; Emily had drawn him a card in nursery, carefully colouring the huge 28 on it.
Her face turns serious again, she furrows her brows and says, I think you should get married. She adds, with a generous dose of honesty, Youre not that old yet, are you?
Dad chuckles at the wellmeaning gesture and replies, Youll call it not that old too, wont you?
Emily, brimming with enthusiasm, continues, Not that old, not that old! Look, Uncle Sergeiwhos been round Mum twice alreadyhes even a bit balding. See? She points to her own forehead, smoothing her soft curls with a hand. Then she pretends to understand when Dad leans forward, eyes locked on hers, as if shed just let slip Mums secret. She places both hands on her mouth, widens her eyes, trying to look horrified and bewildered.
Uncle Sergei? What Uncle Sergei are you talking about? Is he Mums boss? Dad raises his voice, halfshouting across the tearoom.
Idont know, Dad, Emily stammers, taken aback by his sudden outburst. Maybe hes just a boss. He brings us sweets and a cake for everyone. And She hesitates, wondering whether to share Mums flowers with him, given his eccentric nature.
Dad folds his hands on the table, staring at them for a long moment, as if weighing a decision of great consequence. Emily senses that, in this very instant, hes about to make something pivotal. She knows, or at least suspects, that men are often slow to decide and need a gentle nudgeespecially from the woman they cherish most.
Silence stretches on. Finally, Dad lets out a noisy sigh, spreads his fingers, lifts his head and says If Emily were a little older, she might have recognised the tone of a tragic Shakespearean line, but she knows nothing of Othello or Desdemona. Shes simply gathering life experience, watching people laugh and suffer over petty things.
So Dad says, Come on, love. Its getting late; Ill take you home and have a word with Mum. Emily doesnt ask what he intends to discuss; she just knows its important. She hurriedly finishes her icecream, then realises that whatever decision Dad is about to make outweighs even the tastiest treat. She tosses her spoon onto the table, slides off her chair, wipes her sticky lips with the back of her hand, blows her nose, and looks straight at Dad, saying, Im ready. Lets go.
They dont walk home; they nearly run. Dad is the one sprinting, but he holds Emilys hand so tightly she feels like a banner fluttering in the wind, just as Prince Andrew Bolkonsky once held the flagstaff of his regiment.
When they burst into the lift lobby, the doors close slowly, whisking a neighbour upstairs. Dad looks momentarily bewildered; Emily, from bottom to top, meets his gaze and asks, Well? What are we waiting for? Its only the seventh floor.
Dad scoops her up and darts up the stairs. When Mom finally flings the door open, Dad rushes in, eyes blazing, and says, You cant do this! Whos this Sergei? I love you, and we haveEmily He doesnt let go of Emily, pulling Mum into the same embrace. Emily wraps her arms around both of them, squeezes her eyes shut, because the adults are now kissing each other.
