Thursday: December 2nd, 2015

Time was a bit of a blur as the hours of no sleep continued to tick on. But when my final plane touched the tarmac at Heathrow, it was just about noon on the second day of Christmas.

I gladly got out of my seat, enjoying the feeling of stretching my legs, before I shuffled out of the plane with the masses, down the jetway, and through border control. After collecting my suitcase, I finally walked through the arrivals gate, gaze searching the crowd for the familiar face.

Normally, the sight of my father would cause the corners of my lips to turn upwards. But this time, when my eyes landed on him, I could only feel the betrayal. As I stared at his lit-up eyes and hand waving above the crowd for my attention, the last time I saw my dad flashed through my eyes.

╔═══━━━─── ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘ ───━━━═══╗

Last Christmas, dad had come to visit me, like he did every year since mum and I left England for Australia. And in the final week of his visit, he decided to drop some life-changing news on me... which did not go swimmingly.

"Hey poppet, do you think you can sit and have a talk with me for a minute?" dad asked as I walked into the kitchen. While dad had been staying in the spare room for the month of December, it didn't mean we had been spending every waking moment together. He knew in the mornings I liked my quiet time to wake up.

"Sure," I mumbled, noticing mum sitting on the couch next to him. Even though mum had allowed him to stay with us, the two barely ever conversed without me present.

But as I took the seat between them, mum got to her feet. Without even glancing at me, she left the room.

That was... odd, I thought. Looking at my dad's awaiting soft gaze, I began to wonder if this was about me... Eyes widening, I then thought, Oh my gosh, does he want me to move back and live with him?

But before that thought could carry on any further, he said, "You know how I told you I've been seeing someone?"

Grimacing, I recalled the brief mention of a woman with a kid he discussed over the phone a couple months before coming to visit me. He spoke to her almost every evening during dinner time and mum would send daggers his way when he left the table. "Yeah," I said hesitantly.

"Well... I have some news about her and me to share. Her name is Clare and I think you'd really like her. She has a daughter who is three years old and they've been living with me over the past year."

It took dad only a year to replace us. Mum and I had felt that weight crush us, but we always assumed eventually he'd end things with her. Because what man in his forties wants a little kid running around in his life again? And Clare was only in her early thirties, so maybe she'd want more.

"Clare and I are... we... well..." He was really fumbling with his words, and as the eye contact became more infrequent, it began to dawn on me what he was going to say.

He was going to marry her.

This wasn't about me. About custody of me.

He didn't want me to live with him again.

He just wanted to tell me he was officially replacing our family by marrying her. And probably, stupidly, wanted my blessing.

But then he said, "We are going to have a baby together."

I blinked once. Then twice. Then said, "Sorry... did you say—"

"Clare and I are having a baby. She just started her second trimester, which is why I'm now telling you."

Another child. Somehow... it was worse than marriage. Because he wasn't replacing mum. He was replacing me.

Even though Clare had another kid, she wouldn't be his kid properly.

But instead... this baby... was my substitute.

He didn't want me to move back with him.

He was just replacing me in his new family.

"And how is that kid going to fair when you also leave that family?" I spat at him. I didn't turn away from him fast enough as I got to my feet. The pain in his eyes remained with me as I stormed away to my room, feeling betrayed that I was no longer his family. That I would no longer be his only kid. That he would go on and build a life back there without me, never fighting to keep me... because he didn't need to anymore. Because he now had Clare, and her daughter, and his new kid.

Dad had stayed for a week after that, but I barely ever uttered more than a sentence to him in passing. And when he pulled me into his arms despite my protest before he got into the taxi to head back to England, he whispered in my ear that I'd always be his baby. But I never believed him.

╚═══━━━─── ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘ ───━━━═══╝

Looking at him, grinning at me like I was his favourite child, made me want to turn back around and get on the next plane home. I didn't want to be here. I didn't want to meet her, or my step-sister, or my stupid baby brother.

More importantly, I didn't want to see my dad.

Yet as I approached my father, he either misinterpreted the expression on my face or chose to ignore it, because he immediately grasped me the moment I was in arm's reach, wrapping me up and picking me off the ground, all the while muttering into my hair, "I missed you poppet."

I wanted to say, 'If you missed me so much, why didn't you call me more than once a month since he was born?' But I bit my tongue. If I started unleashing now, this was going to be a really long month. Without my room to run to when I didn't want to face him, without mum to back me up, I'd be outnumbered here.

So instead, as he set me back on the ground, I just averted my gaze and shrugged.

"Shall we get going?" he asked, grin still wide on his face.

"Sure," I mumbled.

Tugging my carry-on from my shoulder, he hoisted it over his and grabbed my suitcase with the same hand, wrapping his free arm around me as he nudged me towards the underground station.

"It's a bit of a ride now. I live on the other side of London in Epping," he said, even though I didn't ask. "And we will have to switch trains on the way."

I'm so sorry you had to go out of your way to pick me up.

"But once we get there, I'll let you go have a nap. Clare and the kids won't be home until the evening anyway."

"Where are they?" I asked, despite not caring for the answer.

"Clare is at work and the kids are at daycare."

"You couldn't look after them?"

"I took the day off for you, poppet."

My brows came together at the stupid nickname again, but I bit my tongue. Not yet Zara... Don't start snapping at him now. Especially when you're this tired.

The train was already waiting when we got to the underground, with our terminal being the end-of-the-line stop. Finding a seat was more than easy. Dad ushered me into one by the entrance, so that I wouldn't have to deal with a stranger on the other side of me, while dad took the seat to my right.

"Did you get much sleep?" he asked me after I clearly was not going to say anything.

"No," I replied.

"Too busy watching the movies?"

"No." Too busy thinking about Rowan... Not that I was going to tell him that. He had only called me once in the whole time he and I had been dating. And as far as I was concerned, you had to be in my life to hear about it.

"You're a girl of many words."

"I'm tired," I grumbled. No point telling him I had many more words stewing in my head that he would not appreciate me voicing.

"Why don't you take a nap then? I'll wake you up just before we change tubes. We will have plenty of time to catch up later."

Because sleeping was better than talking, as the train lurched to a start, a gentle hum permeating through the carriage as it headed towards the next terminal station, I found my head leaning into dad's shoulder, his arm still draped around me. Eyes more than heavy, it was easy to drift off in his arms. Because he still felt like dad, even if he didn't dress like him or smell like him anymore. Even if she had removed every trace of who my dad was before, he was still there.

∘◦ ❈ ◦∘ 

Dad did as promised, jostling me awake just before we had to change from the Piccadilly to the Central Line. On that tube though, I didn't get a seat until we had exited zone four and went above ground again.

But instead of letting sleep overcome me, I stared out the window across from me, taking in the dreary grey sky, remembering the times that always looked like this. When people shuffled the streets with their heads turned to the ground, permanent scowls etched on their faces. When the cold would bite at my skin, no matter how many layers I had put on. When a blue sky was so rare that only on days when the sun came out did anyone seem to fully lighten up.

When we first moved to Australia and the heat was so extreme I thought I missed the cold, I used to dream of the days I would return to London. But being back, I missed the sunny dispositions of the Aussies, the almost year-round clear skies, and the endless sounds of birds chirping in the distance and wind jostling the trees.

Finally the tube pulled into Epping, the doors dinging open and the intercom reminding us to, "Mind the gap between the train and the platform". I followed dad out of the station and onto the wet streets on the outskirts of London. Huddling into mum's loaned padded parka, I shoved my hands into my pockets as we began the fifteen minute trek to his house—a fact I learned courteous of his endless small talk.

Dad made an effort to point out the parks he thought I might like to visit, the shops nearby with good fried chicken, all the while I responded with "mmm" and "okay".

The truth was, I didn't care where he thought I would like to go. Because, if I could help it, I planned to stay holed up in my room, binge-watching Netflix and chatting to my friends when our timezones lined up.

Finally the awkward chatter came to a stop as we turned into a small townhouse a couple stories tall. Dad heaved my luggage up the steps, making some stupid joke about I had supposedly packed a dead body, and then we were in the warmth of the house.

Following him down the narrow hallway, he made a point of indicating the living room, kitchen, dining room, yada yada, before we were heading up another flight of stairs.

"Clare, me, and Hunter live on the bottom floor. It will just be you and Amelia up here," he explained between grunts of lifting my suitcase up the narrow stairway. "Hunter also has a room up here, but he won't be using it until he's a little bigger," he also said. Like I would care for this fact. Like I'd even be here when it happened. "And this room, poppet, is yours," dad said, pushing the door open.

I glanced around at the small room. A single bed sat against a wall. Lilac—my favourite colour—cushions, throws, and a rug accented the room. Every photo and postcard I had sent to my dad adorned the wall above the bed.

"Clare did this all up for you," dad said, a proud smile on his face.

But then any warmth I had been accumulating for him disappeared. Because he hadn't put in the effort for me. She had. And I hated it.

Mistaking my silence for tiredness, dad awkwardly wrapped an arm around me and kissed me on the head before saying, "Why don't you have a nap, poppet? I'll let you know when it's dinner time."

One of the only chances he and I would have alone together, he preferred I just slept it away. Great. With the final twinge of annoyance echoing through my body, I snapped, "Can you stop calling me poppet?"

Hurt flashed across his face as he gave me a small nod. "Sure, Zara," he said softly. "If it bugs you that much." Then he left the room like I had been the horrible one in all this, leaving me alone to close the door and fall onto the bed