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I don’t remember much about her, but I hear enough and remember her golden hair and her hard, green eyes refusing to ever play with me or cuddle me. She didn’t want me, but Dad did. He took over when she disappeared. I've had a better life with him and without a mum than I would have had if she had stuck around. Considering what she'd recently let her only two children witness and go through, I have no doubt about the horrendous stories I’ve been told of her over the years.
“She cheated on me a lot throughout the years.” I already knew this, but say nothing, waiting for him to continue. “I had a tip off a few months ago, a random letter in the post telling me that you weren’t mine.”
A letter in the post? Who the hell would come up with something like that? There are always rumours about everyone in life. Rumours and speculations are what create half the things the world talks about, but to tell a man their daughter isn’t theirs eighteen years after said daughter is born, it just baffles me.
“But I am though. We’re exactly the same,” I say with a light laugh. If this is what is worrying him then he is just being silly. Our personalities are exactly the same.
“We like our tea the same way, we both love hash browns, we can both shoot better than this dead shot over here,” I say, jerking my thumb towards Liam. “We practically have identical personalities, Dad,” I say with a chuckle.
“You’re right. We’re very similar, but do you realise what you just said, darlin’?” I think back to the words I used but don’t understand what he’s referring to.
“They’re all learned habits, Charlie. All things that anyone would grow up being if they were brought up by me. You’ve always been a daddy’s girl, followed me, copied me. You wanted to be just like me, and you are.” I realise then what he meant.
I always thought we looked alike too, but now that I’m looking at him, I understood it.
Our hair and eye colours are different. Our face shapes are complete opposites, as well as our individual features. I don’t have any of his physical features. His pitch-black hair in comparison to my mousy brown doesn't match. My nose is annoyingly small in comparison to his prominent one. My lips are full and plump whereas his are thin and small. Small differences but differences all the same.
“I could have just taken after Mum instead of you though,” I say hesitantly.
It’s true. We don’t have pictures of her around, not because my dad doesn’t want to or wouldn't, but because I've never been that interested in her. I've been told so much about her that’s negative, and the small memories I do have of her are never anything good either, so neither of us really see the point. So many people look like one parent and not the other. Crow showed me pictures of his parents and he looks identical to his dad, but nothing like his mum.
“I contacted a man I knew your mum was sleeping with at the time we were together, around the time you were conceived. I explained the situation and he was willing to give me a DNA sample so that we could compare it in case it came to it.” I shake my head, standing.
A man? What man? A DNA sample. My mind works at a mile a minute, repeating Dads words back to myself. The doctor. He took a swab from inside my mouth. I knew that was a bit strange at the time but didn’t think much of it. Why didn’t he tell me? Why did no one mention it when this letter arrived?
I answer my own question before I even get a chance to ask. My dad does everything within his power to avoid me having any stress in my life, any worries or problems. He wouldn’t want to worry me. That’s why he wouldn’t have told me.
“The doctor did the test,” I state, feeling like my mind is spinning in circles but realising when Crow’s arms stop me that it’s not my mind but me slowly spinning in circles.
I stop abruptly and look up to Liam’s fallen face.
Neither he nor Crow would look so distraught if I was my dad’s daughter. My dad wouldn't look so devastated if I was his.
They’d be overjoyed. Happy. Truth was, they probably wouldn’t even mention it or, if they did, they wouldn’t look as concerned as they did now. My dad’s face is not that of a happy man.
“This man you got the samples from, do they-” I can’t say it.
“They match yours. He’s your biological father. I’m not.” My dad’s face falls even more, and I can feel my eyebrows knitting together.
No. No. No, this is not happening. Absolutely not. I feel my head shaking again, wishing more than anything that I could shake this whole conversation away. Dad isn’t my dad? But he is. He is. My mind can't process the mess that’s happening right in front of me, and I find myself looking at my dad, checking his face for a smile, a smirk to tell me that this is some sick joke. But he’s not smiling, his lips aren’t lifted. He’s crying.
I'm still as a statue. Unable to move. My mind seems to freeze in place, incapable of understanding what I’m being told.
Why is Dad crying? Am I crying? I lift a hand to my face to feel my cheeks, but there’s no water. No tears. I’m not crying. Dad’s crying.
I move away from Liam’s arms and kneel in front of my dad, gently tearing his hands away from his tear-stained face.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Charlie,” he cries.
“Why are you sorry? Just because we don’t have the same DNA, it doesn’t mean you’re not my dad, you bloody idiot,” I say with a laugh.
I might cry later, but I can’t handle dad being upset, being torn apart. I need to help him now. He's my dad. He read me stories as a child, and rocked me to sleep. He hand-fed me food when I was being a lazy toddler, and he taught me the truth about life. He taught me how to live, how to take care of myself. My dad lifted me and kissed me when I fell and grazed my knee so many times whilst learning to ride a bike. He’s my dad, and now my dad is upset. My poor dad is in tears, and I have no idea what I need to do to make him feel better, the way he’s made me feel better so many times throughout my life. He needs me. He needs reassurance.
“Come here, you big baby,” I say as I stand up and pull him into a hug. This is how it was at the start after what happened. Me trying to take his sorrow and sadness away. He’s strong but sometimes he needs help, and that’s ok. I need to help him now and think later.
“You’re such a good woman. I’m supposed to be the one consoling you, and here you are comforting me. You’re too good, I should have known sooner,” he says with a disgruntled sigh as he pulls away from my embrace.
“Well, I mean I am pretty amazing,” I tell him, “but like you said, that’s learned, so it’s gotta be from you.” I shove his arm lightly before tucking myself back into his arms.
