You know, its funny how life can twist and turn, isnt it? Let me tell you about AliceAlice Whitmore. She doesnt feel resentment anymore, just this sort of baffled confusion.
It all started the moment little Alice first heard the word “divorce.” Of course, she didnt fully grasp what it meant, but something in her gut told her it was bad. Her family had been just the three of themher, Mum, and Dad. It felt like nothing could shatter their little world of happiness and harmony.
Life back then was calm, predictable. Every morning began the same: Alice would wake to Mums soft voice calling her for breakfast, while Dad brewed a proper cuppa and skimmed the morning papers. Evenings were for familyfilms, board games, those cosy moments that became her brightest childhood memories.
Then one night, Mum sat at the kitchen table, twisting a napkin in her hands. Dad came home with this grim look on his face. The air shifted, thick with tension, like an invisible wall had sprung up between them.
“We need to talk,” Dad said, dead serious.
Alice curled up in the corner, her tiny heart pounding. She watched as her parents locked eyes, their faces strained. Mum just nodded, shrugging, as if giving permission for whatever was coming.
Hours of arguing, cryingAlice buried herself under her duvet, hands over her ears, but every word cut through. The worst was Mums scream, raw with pain.
By morning, Dad packed his things and left. Alice stood there, staring at the door, fighting back tears. Just like that, her little world was gone.
The days after were a blur. Alice kept replaying the past, those happy memories now like salt in a wound. Why had he left? Hed always said he loved her. What changed?
She grew up surrounded by loveboth parents doting on her. Dad was her hero, her protector. His voice, his laugh, the way hed read her bedtime storiesit all felt like part of her.
But the worst was yet to come. One evening, when Alice was ten, Dad showed up out of the blue, looking exhausted and lost.
“You deserve to know the truth,” he said quietly. “Im not your real father.”
Those words hit like a bomb. The world went grey, sounds muffled. For the first time, she felt truly betrayed.
Time passed, but the wound never quite healed. Alice threw herself into school, friends, footballanything to distract herself. But holidays were the worst, hearing mates chatter about family trips and Christmases while she bit her tongue.
Dad remarried a woman with a daughter around Alices age. Their new life looked perfecta posh flat in London, designer clothes, fancy gifts. Everything Alice had once dreamed of.
One moment stuck with her. Dad invited her to his stepdaughters birthday. The girls name was Poppy.
Alice walked there, lost in thought. She was stepping into the life shed been cut out of. That flat, that girlPoppywas everything Dad had chosen over her.
At the door, Alice hesitated. Should she even be here? But she rang the bell.
A tall woman answered. “Come in,” she said briskly.
Inside, the flat smelled of freshly baked cake, kids laughing, music playing. And there was Poppyslim, in a pretty blue dress, eyeing Alice with polite curiosity.
“Hi, Im Poppy,” she said, offering a hand.
Alice flushed. “I know,” she mumbled, shaking it.
Awkward silence. Then
“Did you bring a present?” Poppy asked, businesslike.
Alice fumbled with her bag, pulling out a box of coloured pencils. Suddenly, they seemed so cheap.
Poppy unwrapped them, barely glancing at them. “Thanks,” she said flatly, tossing
