28September
So today I finally crossed the threshold of the new bedroom thats now minewell, technically my fathers, but he called it your room, love. I stood in the doorway, trying not to look like a frightened rabbit. The room is immaculate: a plush duvet on the single bed, a sleek wooden desk with a laptop perched on it, a mirrored wardrobe, and a rectangular rug with a geometric pattern that would make any interiordesign magazine swoon. Everything is costly, modern, and utterly unlike the cosy, cluttered space I grew up in.
Dad hauled in two hefty suitcases full of my things and set them beside the wardrobe.
Will you sort them out yourself? he asked, as if Id need his permission.
Of course I could. He must think Ill beg him for help, or perhaps turn to my stepmother, Claire, for a hand.
Claire arrived with a tall potted plant, its long slender leaves swaying on the windowsill.
I thought itd look nice here, she said, flashing a bright smile that didnt quite reach her eyes. I stood there, shoulders hunched, silent.
Come on, Tom, she whispered to my father, nudging him toward the exit.
Make yourself at home, she murmured, gently closing the door behind us.
Make yourself at home, I repeated in my head, feeling a hollow echo. The unfamiliarity pressed down on me. I collapsed onto the bed, turned my back to the wall, curled into a ball, and hugged my knees. My eyes shut tight.
Mom why did you leave? Why didnt you rush to the hospital? Why did you let it go so far? The words tumbled out in a frantic rush. For ten years Id been a proper mums girl. Since my mothers death Id barely spoken to Tom. Our evenings used to be simple: a television humming in the background, my mothers warm biscuits, a mug of tea. Those memories feel like a soft, distant lullaby now that Im forced to share a house with strangers. Tom barely even calls me daughter any more; the word dad feels clumsy on my tongue.
I imagined the stereotypical rich divorcee marrying a runway model, but Claire is nothing like that. Shes petite, sports a short bob, runs a modest legal practice, and is all businessnothing like my mothers warm kitchen wafts of roast or fresh cake. I wondered whether Claire had a hand in picking out this room. Probably her taste, I thought, tracing the velvety fabric of the duvet with my fingertipsa texture Id never known.
At my new school I quickly made friends, mostly because of my fathers money and my looks. The girls figured it was easier to be allies than rivals. Before, my circle was tiny and my mother the centre of my world. Now, the new crowd understood me, and I felt needed. For the first time boys stared at me, and I silently cheered at that attention.
Initially I wallowed in my situation, letting the class label me a halforphan living with a cold stepmother and a reluctant father. I even leaned into that role, playing the part of the misunderstood girl. One of my classmates whispered to the boys, Why does she talk about her stepmother? My mums friend works for her and says shes a decent lady. It stung, but I kept quiet.
When I got home late one night, Tom said, I know you want to be out with friends, love, so I didnt call. Just try not to stay out so late, okay? I said nothing and slipped into my room.
The next weekend we were supposed to have a night in, but I turned my phone off. Toms face was a storm cloud as he stood in the hallway.
If it happens again, Ill have to take action, he warned.
I shot him a sharp glance and trudged to my room, where Claire was sitting on the bed. She jumped up as I entered.
I wanted to talk, she said, nervous.
I stayed silent, my posture saying, What do you want? She seemed taken aback.
Toms worried about you, she added.
Im almost sixteen! I snapped.
Still, I began coming home earlier, not to upset Tom. I had plans for my sixteenth birthdaya party with friends, a flat promised by an older brother of a mate. I was dating a boy I liked and dreamed of stealing away with him.
Then Tom dropped a bomb.
Claire booked a table for tomorrow. Well celebrate your birthday here. If you want, you can invite friends.
What? A restaurant? With you? I was planning a night out with my friends! I protested.
And when were you supposed to tell us? he asked.
I dont knowmaybe tomorrow, I muttered.
So on the day itself? Fine. If you prefer your friends, you can have them over at our place. Claire will sort the food. The thought of a forced family gathering made my stomach drop. Maxs flatMax being my friends older brotherwas already stocked with drinks, ready for a proper celebration. The idea of my fathers suggestion felt like a joke. I fled to school, vowing to think of something.
Later, in the entry hall, Toms face was red with anger.
What do you think youre doing? he roared, stepping closer, his breath reeking of whisky and cigarette smoke.
You think you can speak to me like that? he snarled, his hand raised.
Tom! Claire shouted from behind.
I lifted my head and saw Claires panicked eyes, mascara smeared from recent tears. She gently pushed Tom aside, took my shoulders, and led me to the spare room.
Did anyone hurt you? Did something happen? she whispered.
I shook my head. No, its fine.
Ill talk to Tom. How can I help you right now?
Just get me a drink.
Claire turned to Tom, who was fidgeting by the door, and said, Shes alright. When Claire returned, I was already asleep, still in my nightdress.
The next morning Tom burst into the kitchen, his voice cracking, Whats that smell? Alcohol?
Claire, trying to keep calm, answered, Shes just tired.
Their argument escalated until Tom finally muttered, Shes just a girl, Tom.
Claire sighed, She lost her mother. All she needs now is love and attention, and shes finding it in her friends. Perhaps something happened today. Maybe they argued?
Tom gave a weary shrug. I never imagined it would be this hard.
Claire smiled weakly, hugging Tom, Well manage together.
When I finally opened my eyes, Claire was already by the bedside, a glass of water in hand.
Here, drink this, she said, handing it over.
I gulped it down, grateful for the simple kindness.
Why did you look after me yesterday? I asked.
Claire shrugged. I was sixteen once, too. Happy birthday, by the way.
I stayed silent.
Do you hate me? I blurted.
Your father left because of you, she replied.
No, thats not true. We met a year after he left.
Exactly! What if he came back?
Claire sighed. Its never that simple, Amelia. People often cant reconnect after a split.
Why not? My mum was wonderful! I protested.
Your mum was wonderful, Claire agreed, reaching for my hand, then pulling back. Adult relationships are messy. Sometimes they work, sometimes they dont, and no one is solely to blame.
Am I to blame? He didnt care about me! I shouted.
That isnt true. He tried to make sure you never lacked anything, Claire said gently. He just thought youd be better off with your mother.
She didnt mention that my mother had asked Tom not to get involved with me once she remarried. She feared Id cling to him, wanting all his love for herself.
He loves you, but youre growing up, Claire whispered, placing her palm on my shoulder.
Later, I asked, If the boy I was dating turned up at my birthday with another girl and dumped me, is he the only one to blame?
Claire thought a moment. He said you were overthinking.
See? I muttered. I wanted someone to hug me, to make the ache in my chest disappear, to feel like the little girl again who thought her dad would fix everything. Claire seemed to sense that and pulled me close.
Amelia, I cant replace your mum, but I can be a friend, she said. I fell in love for the first time at sixteen too. He was a year older, and I later discovered he was seeing someone else.
What a fool! I retorted.
We both dumped him, she replied.
Was it my fault? I asked.
I spent too much time on my studies, she admitted.
We laughed, the tension easing. Both of us felt wed taken a step toward understanding each other.
Lets go shopping today, Claire suggested. You can pick something for your birthday, and Ill use your dads money for a bit.
I smiled uncertainly. I talked to him yesterday. He said we could choose any gift.
We spent the afternoon chatting, buying a few things, and feeling oddly lighter. Suddenly, the car lurched, brakes screeched, and a harsh thud followed a softer knock. Everything went silent.
Dad! Dad, were in the hospital! I shouted.
Half an hour later, I saw Toms silhouette at the end of the ward corridor and waved.
Amelia! he rushed to me, gripping my shoulders, scanning me from head to toe. He saw bruises on my face and hands.
Are you alright? Do you hurt? he asked, his voice shaking.
Its nothing, Dad, I replied, trying to sound brave.
He stared at me, eyes wide, then whispered hoarsely, Wheres Claire?
In the ward. She was on the other side of the crash. Shes alive, Dad. He pulled me close, his breath trembling. I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling his own shakiness.
Im sorry for yesterday, I murmured.
He stroked my back uncomfortably. Lets forget it, okay?
A doctor entered. Are you her husband? Tom answered, Yes. What happened to her?
Shes suffered a severe shock, but the airbag did its job. Shell be fine. The most important thing is the child isnt injured.
The child? Tom blinked, confused. Yes, the child is fine.
The doctor gave a faint smile and left. Tom muttered under his breath, I cant see that my child is fine either.
He wrapped his arm around me again. Did you understand what I meant about the child? he asked.
What child? I rolled my eyes. That Ill have a brother or sister soon!
And thats where I am nowstanding at the edge of a life thats been turned upside down, trying to make sense of the pieces left scattered on the floor.
Amelia.
