I had always wondered who my father was.

"Mummy, where's my daddy?"

"Why is daddy never around?"

"Why do you have blonde hair and mine is dark, mummy?"

As I got older, I gradually knew not to ask any more – mum had never said anything about him, besides the fact that he was dead.


"Do we need to go shopping before your trip?" mum walked into the kitchen and poured herself a bowl of special k, sitting down at the kitchen table, while I had my head in the fridge trying to find the apples.

I pulled an apple out of the very back of the fridge and bit into it. "Oh mum, we went shopping the other day. Pretty sure I have everything I'm going to need, plus the kitchen sink."

"Well I just want you to be prepared, Spain can get really hot in summer… What am I going to do without you here for 3 months?" she beckoned me over.

"You'll do just fine, you know David, your husband, yeah, and well he lives here too! And it's only for summer; I'll be back and annoying you all next year, remember? Don't forget I have Jessie to keep me company! I just finished school. I have the rest of my life to annoy you" I gave her a little hug, resting my chin against her head.

"I know, I know."

"So remember, my flight is in 3 days, and they emailed me my itinerary of flights and stuff, and I hate to break it to you, but my flight leaves the airport at 6:30 am." She turned to look at me.

"You're kidding, right?" she had gone a little white. We both know she's not a morning person at all.



I had always hated the attic. Just something about it seemed so ominous and creepy. But David had put my suitcase up there, and I kinda needed the suitcase so I could go overseas. I couldn't put it off any longer; my flight was only 2 days away.

I stood looking up in my hallway. I could see the little door, ready to be pulled down, with the wooden stick thing. So I pulled. A bit of dirt gave me a nice shower, and I pulled down the ladder, and climbed up. I flicked the switch and had a revelation.

There was absolutely nothing to be afraid of. It was just a little room filled with mattresses and old clothes and photographs and… my suitcase!

My suitcase, rarely used by anyone, was on the top shelf of a large bookcase, with various boxes and books. I walked over to it, and decided just to pull and see what happened.

So I did. My suitcase sure came down, but so did a mountain of books and a few boxes, one, which spilled open, and a flood of photos and letters ended up on the floor. This will be fun to clean up. Not.

I took my suitcase down to my room, and then went back up into the attic to clean the mess up. It looked worse the second time around. I shelved the books, the biggest task first and then my eye caught an old photograph.

The woman was young and smiling with white blonde hair, her arm wrapped around a dark haired man, who was kissing her on the cheek. They were on some sort of amazing beach, sitting on a towel. It was my mother. The box, which it had come from, was the box that had spilled open, so instead of putting all the letters and stuff into it, I pulled it towards me and took a look into it. There was only one other photo. It was the man holding a little baby. He was holding the child like it was the most precious object in his life. There was a date on the back. August 9. My birthday. I had a bad feeling.

I pulled out a letter. It was addressed to mum, dated from 1999. If my suspicions were correct, then this letter shouldn't exist. Mum had told me my father had died one year after my birth, in 1993. I stared at the letter, unsure. I opened, it, carefully, after lots of deliberation, to a letter:


You can't let me see her. She's my daughter. It's unfair on both her and myself; don't forget I love her too. Can we please arrange something?


The letter continued, and most importantly, it had a return address.

I pulled out more letters, all of them along the lines of the first one, asking to see me, and dating the early 2000s and the 1900s. The most recent one, instead of being addressed to mum, it was addressed to me, and dated a few months ago. It was opened.

My baby Adele,

I'm not sure exactly what your mother has told you about me, and seeing as she's never replied to a letter or email I've sent her in the last 17 years, I'm sure it's not good. Now that you are 18, I am allowed to write to you. I would very much like the chance to meet you, my daughter. Please reply to this letter and you will make me a very happy man.

Your father,


There was a return address, different from the others.

I just sat there, clutching the letter. Staring at it. My father was alive! So then why was my mother so hell bent on telling me he was dead? Why would she keep it all a secret from me? This was too important to ignore. I knew what had to be done. I pulled out my phone.

"Hey Jessie… Ok, so don't kill me, but how would you like to change our overseas destination from Spain to Greece?"