I remember it as if it were a halfforgotten tale from my youth, when the world seemed a little simpler, yet no less tangled.
It all began when a woman I had never met appeared at the doorstep of my modest flat in York, demanding to see my father. Good heavens! she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. And what exactly do you want? I stammered, I is my father home? She snapped, Hes not. Hes away on a posting. As she slammed the door shut, a muffled male voice from somewhere deeper in the house called, Mum, whos that?
My mother, Margaret, was a sturdy woman of generous build, a touch slow but diligent, who had raised me alone after my father vanished. My own form was slight, a frail sprig of a girl, freckled and shy, everready to absorb the worlds impressions. We shared only our eyes and those freckles.
My father never did anything wrong, Margaret said calmly to me, her voice steady as a church bell. He simply fell in love with another woman. Well manage without disturbing him. My curiosity about him burned, yet the firmness of her tone cooled my yearning. If he wished to keep in touch, he would have done so; otherwise, there was nothing to be done.
To keep our little household afloat, Margaret first baked cakes and pastries on commission, then opened a small bakery on the high street. I never tried to help with the business; instead I spent my afternoons in an art studio, attended a music school for a spell, and learned to swim at the local pool, cultivating a wellrounded life.
When I confessed to Mother that I wanted to become a nursery teacher, she smiled kindlysuch a profession suited me perfectly. Ill earn my own bread and butter, dear, she said, picturing the modest wages of a schoolmistress.
I had barely started work after university when tragedy struck. Margaret fell ill with a grave disease and passed away. The young doctor asked, Did no one notice she was unwell? I could only stammer, I asked, but Mother said she was just tired and then I wept.
Why blame yourself now? mused my old friend, Edward, a quiet lad Id known since the first grade. Aunt Clara would not want you to suffer. Apart from Mother, Edward was the only person I truly trusted. His father, a man perpetually absent due to work, had raised him alone, and the two of us spent countless hours together. Edward, ever the homebody, preferred computers to nightout escapades, fitting his unassuming appearance.
I should have seen it coming! I should have pushed Mother to seek treatment, I sobbed. It later emerged that the bakery and the flat were wholly mine, a fact I had never known. I didnt realize, I told Edward, bewildered. The bakery manager mentioned it, and I signed a letter without asking questions. He laughed, You must have signed some papers. I recalled, Mother asked me to, and I did, without a word. He sighed, Aunt Clara was probably planning ahead. He asked about the letter, and together we read it. In it, Margaret wrote that she loved me dearly and did not wish to cause me pain, but circumstances forced her hand. She also gave the name and address of my father, urging me to find him, promising he was a good man who would help if needed.
My father, Thomas Whitmore, lived on the opposite side of York. Edward promised to travel with me, but his grandmother fell ill in Leeds, and he departed for a week. Wait for me, I whispered, well go together. Yet I did not obey his plea.
A young, sleekdressed lady answered the door of my fathers house. Who are you? she asked, eyeing me coolly. Thomas Whitmore lives here? Im his daughter, I blurted. Good heavens! she cried. Some lover turned up two months ago, and now a daughter what do you want? I is my father home? She repeated that he was away on a posting, closed the door, and I heard a distant voice mutter, Mum, whos that?
Choking back tears, I left, feeling the womans hostility like a cold wind. The next day, Lydia, the woman who claimed to be my fathers wife, called and arranged a meeting. Your mother left your number, she said, she came seeking my husband, but he was never home. A tidy, handsome man in jeans and a fine sweater stepped forward, introducing himself as Thomas. What a beauty you are, he said, though his face bore the strain of an awkward introduction.
I stared at him, astonished that my father could be so young. Lydia laughed, Alex, dont embarrass her, and gave me a moment to collect myself. For an hour the newlywedded pair peppered me with questions about my life, and I told them everything: my mother, the bakery, my job. My fathers hand comforted my head, and I cried a little more, then declared with a bright smile that we were now a family. Both he and Lydia nodded, assuring me of their sincerity.
How do you manage, girl? Lydia asked, sympathy in her tone. Running a business isnt for everyone. I waved it off. Im not the one who runs it, I replied. Theres an administrator who seems to manage fine. I have no idea whats what. Thomas frowned, Thats not good. Theyll take you for a ride. I trembled, What should I do? He answered, Now you have us; we wont let you be hurt. I felt a sudden warmth.
The very next day I granted a power of attorney, allowing my father to oversee the bakery. I waited patiently for Edwards return, hoping to share the joyous news: Shes no longer alone; she now has a family that will look after her. I told him nothing over the phone, fearing he would complain about my delayed news. When he finally crossed my threshold, I burst forth with excitement. Father has already dismissed the administratorhe was stealing, can you imagine? Edwards expression soured. Hes a good man, I insisted, Ill introduce you properly. I promised that he would be back from his posting in three days, and we would all meet.
But three days passed, then a week, and Thomas never returned. His phone stayed dead, and Lydias messages went unanswered; eventually even her line showed offline. We knocked on his flats door together, but no one opened. A surly neighbour muttered, Sash must be away on business, and Lydia is probably off chasing something else, before slamming the door. Something must have happened to them, I whispered, voice shaking. Where could they have gone? The hospital, the morgue I began to sob. Lets not run to the police yet, Edward urged, Ill try to find out.
For three more days I tried in vain to reach my father and stepmother. Then Edward announced, We have a meeting in an hour, we must leave. He kept the details to himself, promising I would soon learn the truth.
To my surprise, we arrived at Thomass house and were greeted by a stout, balding man. Ah, youre the ones? he said, barely looking up, and ushered us in. The kitchen bore an open bottle of brandy and a modest snack. Did you tell her? he asked Edward. Edward shook his head. No, Im not able to. Thomas sighed and began to explain. It turned out that Lydia was indeed Thomass second wife, whom he had married about five years ago. The name Alex he used with me was a nickname; his legal name was indeed Thomas Whitmore. He had been in the flat when I first arrived, apparently arranging a small theatrical ruse after learning of my inheritance. They had discovered the bakery and the flats value, and decided to stage a drama to keep me naïve.
Did you ever try to learn about your father beforehand? Edward asked me. I shook my head. That was their plan all along, Thomas said. The flat is still yours, dear? he asked. I answered, Yes Father Alex said wed sell it and buy a house where we could all live together. He warned, You might lose the flat if youre not careful. Something seems to have gone wrong. They sold the bakery and ran. He added, Your father is a decent chap, he found out everything, came to talk to me. If only youd listened to him
I never went to the police, despite Edwards pleas, and kept talking with my father, who proved to be a hardworking man, though that night he drank a little too much, perhaps because his wife had fled. He suggested I keep an eye on Edward, hinting that a new chapter might soon begina husband perhaps, a fresh start.
So, looking back now, I see how a web of secrets, missed chances, and unexpected kindness wove itself around a simple girl from York, shaping a life that was never quite what I had imagined, yet somehow became entirely my own.
