Dad’s Gift: A Heartfelt Surprise

My mother was strikingly beautiful, and, according to my father, that was her only merit. I, who adored him with a heart that seemed to stop beating, watched everything through his eyes.

Father taught political science at the university. He came from an educated family that had never accepted my mother. I learned much later how they first met. Father, as a member of a fresh student brigade, was sent to a remote farm in the north of England to build pens for livestock. Mother was only seventeen, working as a milkmaid. She had barely completed eight years of school, and even after many years with father she could not read fluently; she traced letters with her fingers and whispered syllables under her breath. Yet she was a marvel of beauty: fragile, with translucent skin, honeygolden hair down to her waist, cornflowerblue eyes and an exquisitely chiseled profile. In the wedding photograph she looked like a spread from a glossy magazine. Father was tall, darkhaired, with a thick moustache and a rugged air. That summer mother fell pregnant, and he was forced to marry her. Perhaps he had loved her once, but his parents pressed him, accusing her of having tricked him. Around the university swirled young postgraduate womenperhaps not as pretty, but educated, clever, able to hold any conversation. Moreover, on the few occasions father tried to bring mother to his academic gatherings, she ate clumsily, mishandled cutlery and laughed so loudly that he felt ashamed of her. He never shied from voicing this to mother, who only shook her head with a sad smile, too timid to argue.

I swore never to become like mother. I wanted father to be proud of me. Before I even started school I learned the alphabet and could read far better than she ever could. I spent whole days practising numbers so that when father posed another problem I could give the right answer and earn his praise. At the kitchen table I watched fathers manners and mimicked himeating with my mouth closed, never licking the plate, using fork and knife properly. Despite all this, father never truly favored me; he would glance at me briefly, smooth my fluffy hair with a distracted hand. The moments when I managed a conversation with him became a longlasting solace, and I replayed his words in my mind.

When I was in second grade, father left us. Mother hid the truth for a long time, but eventually I learned he had found another woman. The word divorce echoed in my ears, and all I could think of was, If only father would take me with him. Of course I stayed with mother. We had to leave the flatit belonged to my grandparents, who were only glad to be rid of us. For a while they sent modest monthly transfersfather’s stipend in pounds and occasional Christmas sums from grandma. But the collapse of our family coincided with the nations economic downturn; father soon lost his job and the payments ceased. Mother took several lowpaid cleaning jobs, scrubbing floors from dawn till dusk; her wages were often delayed, so we lived in scarcity. Her beauty faded with the years, and I could no longer see anything good in her. I blamed her in my thoughts for fathers abandonment.

Father, meanwhile, turned to entrepreneurship. One day he drove up to our block, handed me a new coat and a handful of cash. That winter day is etched in my memory: I had just trudged home from school, shivering in my threadbare jacket with sleeves that no longer reached my wrists. Father stood by the landingmother was at work and nobody opened the door for him, yet he lingered, waiting. My heart leapthe hadnt forgotten me! I poured him tea with sugar, chattered endlessly about my school achievements, trying to show how clever I had become. He listened halfheartedly but stayed, finished his tea, unfolded the coat, placed the cash on the table and said:

Give this to mother. Ill bring more next month.

Will you come for my birthday? I asked timidly.

He looked at me as if the date had slipped his mind, then answered:

Of course! What would you like?

A doll! I blushed; I was nearly a teenager, but the word slipped out. I wanted that childhood symbol from his hands, though he usually bought me books.

Very well, he nodded, a doll it shall be.

When mother returned, I proudly recounted fathers visit and his promise to bring a doll for my birthday.

On my birthday I raced home at every possible speed, fearing father might not wait. I hoped to find him at the doorstep, but he was nowhere. The night before mother had baked a cake; in the morning she gave me a fashionable knitted jumper I had long coveted. I left the cake untouched, waiting for father, but he never appeared. In the evening, when mother came back from work, we ate the cake together, yet my spirit was bleak, and by the end I was sobbing. Mother understood, but said nothing about father.

The next morning mother handed me a small box.

It arrived by post, delayed, they said. Its from father.

I opened it to find a brandnew doll in a pretty pink wrapping. I exclaimed with joy and asked:

Why didnt he come himself?

He must have been sent on a business trip, mother replied, averting her gaze.

That doll became my most treasured possession. I took it to school, unafraid of classmates jokes. Father never returned, and grandma never sent another monetary gift. Gradually I accepted that only mother remained in my life, though each day I longed for father, hoping that one day he would see who I had become and be proud.

After finishing eleven years of school I entered medical college. I was determined to tell father the news, so I resolved to find him. I remembered roughly the address of the flat where I had lived eight years, and the cottage of my grandparents, which I visited only on holidays. Without telling mother, I set off.

At fathers former flat a woman answered the door, insisting no one by that name had lived there for seven years. I tried to ask about previous tenants, but she slammed the door.

At my grandparents house there was no answer. I was about to leave when a dryskinned old lady with oversized glasses opened the next door and asked:

Who are you looking for?

Im here for the Sergeys Im their granddaughter.

The lady squinted, then said:

If youre the granddaughter, you should know theyve been in the grave for many years.

My cheeks flushed.

I didnt know My parents split up, and I

Yes, yes. Divorced So youre Mary?

Yes.

You wanted to see Grandma and Grandpa?

Yes. And father too, I whispered.

She stared at me in a way that made everything click.

All of them together, dear, were killed. For debts. In a single day. All because of your father

The truth crashed over me so hard I could hardly breathe.

Dont kill yourself, the old woman croaked. Youre young, life lies ahead. Is your mother alive?

I nodded.

Heres what. I have the addresses of their graves written down. Go, visit them, and youll find some peace.

She fumbled through drawers, finally producing a small notebook, dictating the plot numbers and naming the cemetery. I thanked her and hurried away, though fear soon clamped its cold hand around my throat.

The graves were overgrown, untended. I cleared the weeds enough to read the inscriptions, all aligned behind a single fence. The dates of death revealed that the tragedy had occurred two days after my last encounter with father.

On the tram ride home, trembling, a thought struck me: father could never have sent that doll on my birthday. The doll I had kept all these years, treasured above every other gift mother gave me, might have been sent by mother herself, I wondered. A blush rose to my cheeks, a lump lodged in my throat. Shame flooded me. My father turned out to be a petty crook who ruined his own parents. Thank heavens we never lived together; otherwise we would have lain side by side in that cold.

I never told mother about the trip. I claimed I had been out with friends. Later I embraced her, whispered that I loved her, and lied once more:

Thank you for everything.

Mothers eyes, once dimmed by time but still a vivid cornflower hue, widened with surprise.

I always knew that you gave me that doll, she said softly. Thats why I loved it so much.

Large tears streamed down her cheeks. I felt no shame for my deceit any more; I only felt remorse for all the years I had believed there was nothing good in her, save the fleeting beauty that slipped away.