The Final Day of Joy

The last happy day

Do you even understand what youre doing? a voice crackled, turning harsh. You brought her chocolates. Once every six months. How thoughtful, dear father! Wheres the kindness? Is that all you can manage? You handed over sweets and walked away, ignoring your parental duties? Do you even know how we survive? Have you ever asked? Brought any money? Never! You just hover here now and then so she wont forget dad. A good, kind dad brings a child, who spends days alone because I cant leave work, a handful of sweets!

Never before had Emma ever argued with him in front of Violet. And now Emma tried desperately to keep her daughter from hearing, but the thin walls

***

Twelve square metres. In the corner a writing desk. Scattered pencils, a crooked paper cutout, a stack of textbooks opened at random.

This was the room Violet shared with her toys, where she spent most of her solitary evenings. She was seven, yet already accustomed to being alone, especially at night. At school she had friends, classmates, even a benchmate, but at home she was by herself.

Violet was hunched over a maths worksheet. Numbers swam before her eyes; she was exhausted and utterly clueless how to solve them, but she had to finish handing in a blank paper was not an option, and there was no one to help. She didnt know when Emma would return, or if she would have any time at all.

Everything was done by Violet herself. Lessons. Everything alone. From school a walk past two courtyards where old swings creaked in the wind. Lunch reheating yesterdays soup on the stove. And now maths.

Five plus three eight. Write eight, she muttered, carefully pronouncing each digit aloud.

In her mind, a voice seemed to stand beside her:

Youre growing up, Violet. You can manage.

And Violet managed, because Emma worked from dawn till late night, always. A mother who tried, a mother who loved, a mother who could rarely just be a mother.

Suddenly, thin murmurs drifted through the hallway. A dispute, perhaps Violet froze, pencil hovering over the page. Someone approached the door. Emma and someone else.

With her usual caution, Violet crept to her bedroom door, eased it open, and peered into the dim corridor.

They entered.

The scene before her was both familiar and strange. Emma stood in the hallway, her fringe, which she curled each morning, pushed to the side. Beside her stood a man David.

David, who hadnt lived with them for a couple of years. A father whose shiny black car occasionally appeared in the courtyard, provoking in Emma a mix of nervousness and something like anticipation. In the six months since his disappearance, Violet had grown used to the notion that she had no dad.

In his hand, stark against the grey concrete stairwell, glimmered a bright red parcel.

Emma hung her coat on a hook.

David slammed the door behind him.

Violet! Emmas tone softened as she said the name, then grew brusque, glancing at her exhusband We have a visitor.

Violet stepped out hesitantly, eyes fixed on the red parcel. David, seeing his daughter, flashed a forced smile and cooed:

Hello, princess! he said, handing her the parcel Here, treats. I saved up for you, chose them especially.

Violet took the parcel gingerly. It was heavy. Through a translucent wrap she could see glossy wrappers chocolates! At home, chocolates were a rarity, a sort of celebration reserved for when grandparents visited or for a school fete.

And now a whole parcel! She forgot everything else and began unwrapping a single chocolate, her favourite Bear.

Thank you, dad! she said, mouth already full, and plunged back into the parcel.

Emma watched with an expression Violet had learned to read. It was not approval, not joy, certainly not a desire to see her exhusband again. It was something more complicated.

David, lets go to the sitting room, Emma said.

She took the man by the elbow, ignoring Violet, who was still devouring chocolates with barely a chew, and led him deeper into the flat.

Feeling her presence was no longer important, Violet retreated to her room, but she heard everything.

Do you even understand what youre doing? the mothers voice hissed again. You brought her chocolates. Once every six months. How caring, dear father! Wheres the kindness? Is that all you can manage? You handed over sweets and walked away, ignoring your parental duties? Do you even know how we survive? Have you ever asked? Brought any money? Never! You just hover here now and then so she wont forget dad. A good, kind dad brings a child, who spends days alone because I cant leave work, a handful of sweets!

Emma had never before argued with him in front of Violet. And now Emma tried desperately to keep her daughter from hearing, but the thin walls

Emma, well David began, adding something indistinct, but Violet, even with her ear pressed to the wall, caught nothing.

Not Emma, well! she interrupted. Im still paying off your loan! Your failed business! Do you remember whose name it was on? Mine! And youre out there, so free. Wont you settle your debts?

A rustling sound was heard.

I pay what I can, the fathers voice faded, Money doesnt appear from nowhere. I help as much as I can. I could shower you with gold I would.

Help? Emma shouted, You bring a child chocolates and call that help? Fine suppose you have no money. Sell the car. Close the loan.

Emma, how can I sell the car if I cant survive without it? Thats how I earn now. Where would I go without it?

If you cant help with money, at least come sit with the child.

I would, if I had time, but I dont. Thats life.

Violet stood, pressed against the wall, gooseflesh crawling down her spine. She was only seven, yet she understood everything. She understood that her dad had left. She understood that debt was a terrifying thing. She understood that the business he bragged about was now a burden, not a pride. All because of dad.

The chocolates in her hand no longer tasted sweet. Unfair! Yet on the other side where had she ever seen a fair world?

***

Many years later.

A pink parcel and a bitter taste.

The picture repeated.

Only Violet was no longer a sevenyearold. She was approaching thirty, a grown woman with a threeyearold daughter, Lucy, who by now was probably tearing around the flat, playing with a friend in a language only they understood.

A familiar knock sounded at the door again. And again a father.

This time there was no hallway showdown. Emma had long ago stopped paying Davids loans. Emma had raised Violet on her own all her life. David, having received a decent share from the sale of their old flat (when Emma finally decided she would no longer wait for miracles and sold it to move into a modest house, giving him a compensation for his part), continued to appear in Violets life every six months, a visitation that no longer charmed her.

Hello, princess! Davids smile was the same as before. In his hand he now held not a red, but a bright pink parcel A treat for my granddaughter.

Violet forced a smile.

Good evening, dad. Come in.

She wanted to say something else, but she kept the relationship neutral for some reason.

Lucy, hearing an unfamiliar voice, peeked out of the nursery. Seeing a grandfather she barely remembered, she was wary, but her eyes were drawn to the pink parcel.

Whos that? she asked Violet.

Its granddad, Lucy. Dont you recall? He came last year and gave you a Barbie, Violet replied, Granddad David.

David handed the parcel to Lucy.

Hi, love! Look what granddad has!

Lucy took it.

Inside were not chocolates but bright little toy figures the kind given away in promotional packs at shops. A bit of junk, really.

You never change, dad, Violet said, Exactly the same.

Why should I change? Im fine as I am, he grinned, taking it as a compliment to his gift.

Violet knew he had never truly helped her. He never brought money when she needed a tutor for university entrance. He didnt assist when, as a student, she worked night shifts to buy a new coat. His help was always limited to token presents.

Im here, you know David settled into a chair that should have been replaced ages ago, My son, George.

Violets skin prickled. Son? George. A son from a second marriage, born in 2002. She had only seen him in photographs, never met him, and never wanted to.

Congratulations, she replied briefly, Do you want me to take a loan for his wedding?

Even the unflappable David flinched.

Id like to invite you

I wont go.

Come on, Violet, he persisted, Its family. George called you. He knows youre there. Just drop by for an hour. It might distract you.

She wanted to scream, to hurl a chopping board at him, but she held herself back Why? Why had she never once told him who she really was? This George, her supposed brother, seemed to have everything a beloved son, a life of ease. And she?

Fine, she said, Ill come.

***

The wedding. Lavish, the kind Violet could never afford, even with a husband, because it would be beyond their means. She sat at a distant table set for colleagues, distant relatives, and distant cousins. She saw George, his delicate bride Marina in an expensive white dress, and David, who spent the whole evening trying to please the young couple.

When the toast arrived, David stood. In his hand was not a parcel but a document.

Dear George and Marina, he announced, Today I wish you a happy birthday. Yes, a birthday of your lives. Look after each other, remember your parents, build your happiness. And to keep storms away, I have prepared something for you

He handed George a set of keys keys to an apartment.

Darkness fell over Violets thoughts. She had never felt such hatred as now, as if years of accumulation burst at once.

An apartment for the son. And she, Violet, still had to work, work, and work to pay the mortgage on her modest flat. A mother who had spent years paying off dads debts. A woman who had taught herself, earned herself. And George George, who always had everything. A father who, as a child, whisked him off to resorts and bought him whatever he wanted.

Thats justice, she whispered.

Leaving, Violet cast a look of pure loathing at her father and his new family. A poisonous thought echoed in her mind: May this be your last happy day!

***

Exactly a month later.

Rumours spread through the family, as they always did, about everything. George had been assaulted in an alley. He was robbed, fought back, beaten, his head slammed against the pavement several times. He survived, but could no longer walk or speak. He lay there.

David had to hire a carer. Marina was pregnant and couldnt lift heavy things, couldnt move her husband. Yet the pregnancy was troubled; at five months she lost the baby. David tore between his lying son and his grieving fiancée. A glass of whisky became his sole solace.

One day he shuffled to Violets flat, barely on his feet.

He came to unload his soul.

Violet listened, nodded, but inside there was only a twisted satisfaction. Enjoy your happy life, dad.

She never inquired further about Davids later life. She returned what she could call a debt.

More time passed.

Violet visited the grave of her paternal grandmother the one who had always been kinder to her than her own dad, and the grandmother whom Davids mother had never once helped. At the tombstone she saw a fresh grave beside it. Next to the grandmothers stone lay Georges.

Had a rough time, she stated.

Violet felt no grief, no anger, no pity. Just emptiness.

She now knew that the brother she never truly knew was gone.

One day David returned, once more, this time with a request.

Violet, he sounded like a man in his fifties turned into a grandfather, Do you have a thousand pounds? Ill pay you back soon.

When?

Whenever I can

Dont bother.

Violet agreed without protest. It even felt a small pleasure that he had fallen so low.

She never saw him again. Relatives told her David had sold both his apartments, poured the money into some cult, found a refuge there. His wife, Georges mother, had returned to her homeland to mourn. Violets life, on the other hand, turned a corner. After paying off her mortgage, she and her husband bought a second flat to let out. She lived, and on the rare occasions when she thought of the past, of her father, of his family, a thought flickered: could all this misfortune have been caused by her own wish?