The Reconciliation

Dont come back, Father, the little girl whispered, her voice trembling like the thin mist that clings to the River Thames at dawn. Whenever you leave, Mother begins to weep, and she cries until the first light brushes the windows. I fall asleep, wake up, drift back to sleep, and wake again, and she is still weeping. I ask her, Mum, why are you crying? Is it because of Father? and she says she isnt crying at alljust that her nose is running, a cold, she claims. But Im old enough to know a runny nose never sounds like sobbing.

In a cosy tearoom on a rainslicked corner of Camden, Father sat across from his daughter, stirring a halfcooled mug of tea with a tiny silver spoon. The girls own cone of icecream sat untouched on the table, a miniature masterpiece in a glass bowl: rainbowcoloured pearls capped with a leaf of mint and a bright cherry, all drizzled in dark chocolate. Any sixyearold would have swooned at such a sight, yet Agnes did not. She had, just last Friday, decided it was time for a serious talk with her father.

Father lingered in silence, the ticking of the clock filling the space, then finally said, What shall we do, my dear? Stop seeing each other altogether? How shall I live then?

Agnes pinched her little, upturned nosesoft and a touch potatoshaped, just like Mothersand thought a moment before answering, No, Father. I cant be without you either. Heres what well do: call Mother and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Well wander together, and if you fancy a cuppa or a scoops of icecream, we can sit here in the tearoom. Ill tell you everything about how Mother and I live.

She paused, then added, And if you want to check on Mother, Ill film her on my phone each week and show you the pictures. Does that sound alright?

Father gave her a small smile, a nod, and said, Very well, that shall be our new way, my girl. Agnes exhaled a breath that seemed to lift the fog from the room and turned back to her icecream. Yet she had not yet finished the most important part. As the colourful pearls perched on her nose grew tiny, multicoloured whiskers, she licked them with her tongue, straightening, nearly adult, almost a woman who must look after her own man, even if he is already old. Fathers birthday had been the week before, and Agnes had drawn a huge 28 on a card in nursery, colouring it with painstaking care.

Her face grew solemn, her eyebrows knitted, and she announced, I think you ought to get married soon. She added a generous lie, Youre not that old yet, after all. Father regarded the tender gesture with a faint snort, Youll say youre not that old, wont you?

Agnes, buoyed with enthusiasm, continued, Not that old! Look, Uncle Sergeywhos already visited Mother twicehes even a bit balding. See here She tapped the crown of her own head, smoothing the soft curls with a fingertip. Then she froze, as Fathers stare sharpened, as if she had inadvertently spilled Mothers secret. Both hands pressed to her lips, eyes widening in a mixture of terror and bewilderment.

Uncle Sergey? Father shouted, halfraised, as if the whole tearoom should hear. Who is this Uncle Sergey that keeps dropping by? Mothers boss?

I I dont know, Agnes stammered, her voice trembling. Maybe hes the boss. He brings me sweets, a cake for everyone and perhaps She hesitated, weighing whether to reveal the most intimate detail to a father who seemed, in that moment, utterly out of touch, Mothers flowers.

Father intertwined his fingers on the table, staring at them for a long breath, as if the decision he was about to make would reshape his life. He sensed a young womans patience, the quiet urging of a woman who understood that men were often slow to act and needed a gentle pushespecially one as dear to him as his own daughter.

Silence stretched, then a noisy sigh escaped Fathers lungs. He unclenched his hand, lifted his head, and spoke. If Agnes were a little older, she might have recognised the tone as one Othello uses when he asks Desdemona a tragic question. But she knew nothing of those Shakespearean lovers; she was merely gathering lifes lessons from the people around her, watching how they delighted and suffered over trivialities.

What shall we do, my dear? he said. Its late; Ill take you home, and Ill speak with Mother then. Agnes didnt press for details; she sensed the gravity and, without hesitation, returned to her icecream. Yet the weight of his forthcoming words seemed greater than any taste, and she flicked her spoon onto the table, slid from her chair, wiped the back of her hand across her stained lips, sniffed, and, looking straight at Father, declared, Im ready. Lets go.

They did not walk home; they almost ran. Father led, his hand firm around Agness wrist, as if he were a knight holding a banner aloft, reminiscent of a brave captain rallying his troops on a misty battlefield. The lift doors at the end of the hallway creaked shut, whisking a neighbour away to the upper floors. Father glanced bewildered at Agnes, who, from the ground up, met his eyes and asked, Now? What are we waiting for? Which floor? Were only on the seventh.

Father scooped Agnes up and surged up the stairs. When at last Mother flung the front door wide, Father rushed forward, shouting, You cant do this! What about Sergey? I love you, and we have Agnes He wrapped his arms around Mother, pulling her into the same embrace, while Agnes clutched both of them by the neck, closing her eyes as the adults kissed amid the soft glow of the hallway lights, a surreal tableau of love, fear, and the strange logic of a dream.