“She’ll live in the cupboard,” the wife said about the child. Little did she know how it would all unfold…
“You have a daughter. She’s seven.”
The words crackled through the phone like thunder on a clear day, piercing Cyril straight through. He nearly dropped the receiver, his heart hammering so violently he thought it might burst from his chest. That voicehe hadnt heard it in eight years. Eight long, silent years. And now, suddenly, it was as if time had stopped, as if only a moment had passed since he last heard her breath, her laughter, her whisper.
“Tanya? Is… is that you?” he exhaled, glancing around as if someone might overhear, as if her very existence were a secret he’d buried beneath layers of orderly routine.
“Yes, Cyril. I need to meet you. Now.” Her voice was quiet but firm, carrying not just a plea but something final, like a sentence.
“But… what do you mean? What daughter? What are you even talking about?” His chest tightened, thoughts fluttering like panicked birds in a cage.
“Come to the café on High Street. In an hour. Ill explain everything. Everything you need to know.” And thensilence. The line went dead. Nothing but hollow static ringing in his ears.
Cyril stood in the middle of the office, surrounded by chattering colleagues, ringing phones, the clatter of keyboards, yet he felt untethered, adrift. A daughter? His daughter? With Tanya? Impossible. Theyd parted eight years agoabruptly, painfully, like a thread snapped against its will. Hed gone back to his family, to his wife, to his son, to the life he thought he was meant to lead. And nowthis.
Mechanically, he dialed home, his voice shaking as he told his wife, Irene, hed be working late. She huffed, as always, muttering about dinner, about how “everything falls on me,” how “you have no idea how hard this is.” Cyril nodded into the phone, though she couldnt see him, and murmured, “I know, Im sorry.” But his mind wasnt with her. It was with Tanya. With those three months when the world had felt different. When the air smelled of freedom, when laughter was real, when love didnt demand ledgers or sacrifices. Tanya had been light as a breeze, warm as sunlight. She hadnt asked for money, hadnt staged scenes, hadnt guilted him. Shed just loved. And hed chosen duty.
Timothy, his son, was probably glued to his computer, lost in some virtual world where he could be strong, victorious, where he didnt have to wonder why his father had become a stranger, why the house felt so cold. Fifteenalmost a man, yet still searching for something to hold onto. And Cyril had long since stopped being that anchor.
An hour later, he stood outside the café on High Street, his hands trembling, palms damp. Inside, by the window, sat a woman. He recognized her instantly, though shed changed beyond recognition. Thin, her face gaunt, dark circles beneath her eyes. A scarf covered her head, neatly tied, but it couldnt hide the fragility, the shadow of death already hovering near.
“Hello, Cyril,” she whispered, so softly it carried more weight than any shout.
“Hello,” he managed. “Youre… ill?”
She nodded. Dry-eyed, but exhaustion pooled in her gaze.
“Cancer. Stage four. Doctors say maybe two, three months. No more.”
Cyril sank into the chair opposite her. His throat closed; breathing became difficult. He wanted to say”Ill help,” “Well find treatment”but the words wouldnt come. He just stared at this woman hed once loved and understood: she was dying. And she had something he needed to hear.
“I didnt call for pity,” she continued. “I have a daughter. Keira. Shes seven. Shes yours, Cyril.”
He froze. Time stopped.
“Mine? But… we were careful!”
“Sometimes these things happen,” she murmured. “I found out a month after you left. Youd already gone back to Irene. You had a son. You made your choice.”
“Why didnt you tell me?!” The words ripped from him. “Why keep it secret?”
“What would have been the point?” No bitterness, just weariness. “You chose. You said it was over. I didnt want to ruin your life. I raised Keira alone. Loved her. But now… I cant be there for her. If you dont claim her, shell go into care.”
Cyril pressed his hands to his face. His mind buzzed. He remembered that yearhow Irene had screamed, threatened: “If you leave, youll never see Timothy again!” How the boy had cried, clutching his hand. How hed broken, returned. How hed called Tanya and said, “Its over.” No explanations. No goodbyes.
“Show me… show me her,” he whispered.
Tanya pulled out her phone. On the screena girl. Blonde hair in braids. Grey eyeshis eyes. The same shape, the same depth, the same spark.
“God…” Cyril exhaled. “Shes… shes my double.”
“Yes,” Tanya nodded. “And she has your temper. Stubborn. But kind. So kind. Loves to draw. Wants to be an artist.”
“Where is she now?”
“Home. With a neighbour. I couldnt leave her alone.”
“I want to see her. Now.”
“Wait,” Tanya said. “Prepare yourself. Prepare your family. This isnt simple. Its forever.”
That evening, Cyril gathered them in the living room. Irene sat stone-faced, a statue. Timothy, as usual, was glued to his phone. Cyril took a deep breath.
“I have a daughter. With another woman. Shes seven. I just found out. Her names Keira. And shes… mine.”
Silence. Thick, suffocating. Theneruption.
“What?! You cheated on me?!” Irene shrieked, leaping up. “All these years, you hid a child?!”
“It was eight years ago!” Cyril tried to explain. “We were nearly separated! I left, then came back”
“We were never separated!” Irene cut in. “You ran off to your mistress! And now you come home with a child?!”
“Dont you dare call her that!” Cyril roared. “Tanya is dying! That little girl has no one!”
“And thats my problem?!” Irene screamed. “Im supposed to welcome some bastard into my home?!”
Timothy looked up, his face twisted with contempt.
“Dad, why do we need her? Things are bad enough. Why another burden?”
“Shes your sister,” Cyril said quietly.
“Shes no sister of mine!” Timothy spat. “Shes some stray! I dont want her here!”
Cyril looked at themhis wife, his sonand for the first time, he understood: this wasnt a family. These were ruins. People he lived with but didnt live for. People whose hearts had long turned to stone.
“Im taking Keira,” he said, ice in his voice. “With your blessing or without it.”
“Then choose,” Irene hissed. “Us or her.”
“Seriously?” He stared her down.
“Absolutely. Your family or that brat.”
“Dont you call her that!” Cyril exploded. “Shes a person! Shes my daughter!”
“In my house, I call her what I like!” Irene shrieked.
“Its my house too,” he shot back. “But it wont be for long.”
A week later, Tanya was moved to hospice. Cyril went to collect Keira. The girl stood in the hallway with a small, battered suitcase. Thin, pale, huge eyes filled with fear but no tears. She looked at him like he was salvation.
“Hello,” she whispered. “Are… are you my dad?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” he said, crouching to her level. “Im your dad. Ive come to take you home.”
“Mum said you would,” Keira murmured. “Is she… is she getting better?”
Cyril faltered. How do you tell a child this?
“Keira… your mums very ill. She… might not get better. Shes going away.”
Keira nodded. Slowly. Eyes brimming, but she didnt cry. As if shed known. As if shed prepared.
“I packed my things,” she said. “Not much. Mum said youd get me new ones.”
“I will,” he promised, hugging her. “Whatever you want. Whatever you like.”
At home, Irene met them in the hallway like a sentinel from hell.
“So this is your bastard?” she sneered.
“Irene, for Gods sake, not in front of her!” Cyril snapped.
“What? Let her know her
