Today Dad barged into the kitchen and collapsed onto the stool at the table. Its legs scraped against the floor in that awful way. Mum didn’t say a word. I tensed up in my room.
“Who do you think I’m talking to? Look at me!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table.
I knew Mum had turned around—I could feel the fear seeping from her eyes.
“What are you staring at? Get me food! A man comes home from work. I know you women, always gossiping and flirting,” he muttered, quieter now.
Mum clattered the dishes, hurriedly grabbing a plate from the rack above the sink.
“Pasta again? I’m sick of it,” he snapped. I curled up in my room, waiting for the sound of a smashed plate. It didn’t come. For a while, the kitchen was silent. I crept out and peeked through the doorway. Dad sat with his back to me. Mum waved her hand—go away—and I vanished from the frame as if I’d never been there. I locked myself in my room and buried my face in a textbook, but after every sentence I stopped and listened. Quiet for now. Today he was behaving almost calmly. Then I heard him walk past my door to their bedroom, mumbling to himself, and he fell silent.
I heard this nearly every day. I could tell from the sounds what was happening in the kitchen. Dad never held a steady job—he couldn’t stay anywhere long because of his drinking, just scraped by with odd jobs. When Mum wasn’t home, I tried not to be alone in the flat with him. I’d go to friends’ houses after school or sit on the stairs and wait for Mum.
“Hey, what are you doing on the stairs? Forgot your keys?” Oliver stopped in front of me. He lived on the fifth floor.
“Something like that,” I muttered. I felt ashamed he’d caught me there.
He walked past, climbed two steps, and stopped.
“You’ll freeze. You can’t sit on concrete steps. Come to mine.”
I didn’t answer.
“Come on,” he said firmly, and I obeyed. He was an older student, and I was used to doing what older people said.
Oliver opened his flat door and let me in first.
“Mum, I’m home. And I’m not alone!” he called, shutting the door.
“Who’s with you?” Margaret came into the hall. She was Oliver’s mum.
“Hello,” I said quietly.
“Hello. You’re Daisy, aren’t you?”
“Guess what—I was coming up the stairs and she was sitting on the steps,” Oliver said, taking off his coat.
“Forgot your keys?” Margaret asked. “Take off your coat and wash your hands. I’ll heat up lunch.”
I walked into the living room and looked around. The flat was the same layout as ours, but it felt cosier and prettier. Lunch was delicious, even though it was just chicken soup and pasta with sausages.
“Thank you, it was lovely,” I said.
“Next time, don’t sit on the stairs. Come straight up to us,” Margaret said. “Deal?”
I nodded.
“Thanks, Mum. We’ll go to my room. Come on,” Oliver said, gesturing with his hand. I looked at Margaret. She nodded.
Inside Oliver’s room, I was surprised—it was tidy, no clothes lying around, clean. Posters of famous bands and colourful motorcycles hung on the wall.
“Do you like racing?” I asked.
“Not really. The posters just look cool.”
“I don’t have a computer. Well, I do, but Dad broke the monitor. We can’t afford a new one.”
“I have a tablet. Want to borrow it?” he offered straight away.
“No—if Dad sees it, he’ll sell it.”
“Then come here whenever you need to study.”
“Have you decided what to do after school?” I touched a model aeroplane. “Did you make this?”
“Of course. I want to study aeronautical engineering at university.”
“You’re going to be a pilot?”
“No, design planes,” he said with a knowing smile.
Every girl in my class fancied him. Handsome. Tomorrow I’d tell them I’d been at Oliver’s place—they’d be green with envy.
Time flew as we talked. I glanced at my watch and jumped up.
“I’ve got to go. Mum’s probably home by now.”
I didn’t want to leave, but I didn’t want to outstay my welcome. Oliver saw me to the hall.
“Come round. Don’t sit on the stairs,” he said as I left.
I walked into our flat and saw Mum’s coat on the hook. From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes—she was making dinner.
“Where have you been so late?” she asked, peering out.
“I was at number fifteen on the fifth floor.”
“Don’t go wandering into people’s flats. What will they think of us? Do you want dinner?”
“No, Oliver’s mum fed me. I’m going to do my homework. Is he home?”
“Can’t you hear him? Snoring like a train. Where did he get the money? Drunk again,” Mum sighed.
After that, I often went to Oliver’s. If I saw him in the corridor at school, I’d nod and blush. He’d say hello and walk past.
Sometimes Oliver wasn’t home—he went to a sports club in the evenings. Then Margaret would tell me about her son, about her husband who’d died a few years ago.
Winter turned to spring, then summer. I stopped going up to Oliver’s; I hung out with friends or sat on the bench outside the building.
“Why don’t you come round anymore?” Oliver asked once when he saw me on the street. I shrugged.
“Have you finished your exams? When are you leaving for university?”
“I’m not leaving. I’ll study at the local polytech. I don’t want to leave Mum alone.”
“That’s great!” I said, happy.
That autumn I went to see him, pretending I couldn’t solve a problem. But somehow we couldn’t chat like before. I felt shy around him, awkward and stiff. He’d changed, grown up, and become even more handsome.
That winter Dad died—poisoned by cheap whisky. Mum didn’t cry, not even at the funeral. I felt sorry for him, though. Now I didn’t need to wait for Mum to come home, and I had no reason to go up to Oliver’s.
For a long time, Mum still jumped at the doorbell, fear flashing in her eyes.
“Mum, what’s wrong? He’s not here anymore,” I’d say.
“Just habit,” she’d reply.
I was in my final year of school. One evening I stood by the window, watching for Oliver.
“Why are you sitting in the dark? Still watching for Oliver?” Mum came in and flicked on the light.
“I’m just looking out the window,” I snapped, caught off guard.
“He’s a grown man. He has a girlfriend now. A pretty one. You’d better focus on your studies,” Mum sighed.
Oliver has a girlfriend! My heart ached with jealousy and grief. I hadn’t seen her, but I already hated her. Then one day I bumped into them in the courtyard.
“Daisy? Hey, why don’t you come up?” Oliver said warmly. His girlfriend stood beside him, looking at me with icy eyes. She was tall, so she looked down at me like I was a mouse. Oliver was tall too, but he looked at me differently.
“What year are you in now?”
“Final year.”
“Time flies. You’ve grown up, you look lovely. I barely recognised you. Where are you applying?”
“Oliver, let’s go.” The girl tugged his arm impatiently.
“Bye, good luck!” Oliver said, and they walked off arm in arm.
I watched them go. *She’s cold as a fish, with eyes like ice cubes,* I thought bitterly. *She should be called the Ice Queen, but that’s too good for her.* I started calling her Fish-face in my head.
Time passed. I finished school and got into medical school. Oliver graduated and found a job; soon he bought a car. I learned to recognise its engine sound—I’d rush to the window when he pulled up outside.
One day I was walking home from university and saw Margaret in the courtyard. She was walking slowly with a stick, limping badly.
“Hello, Mrs. Collins,” I said. “What happened? Why are you limping?”
“My leg is agony. I can barely walk. The doctor says I need surgery, an artificial joint, but I’m scared,” she complained.
“Tell me what to buy from the shop—I’ll go, it’s no trouble,” I offered.
“Go on, then. Oliver’s never home…”
So I started going up to their flat again, though I hardly ever saw Oliver. I did the shopping and helped with the cleaning.
One day I got brave and asked about Oliver’s girlfriend.
“Vanessa is beautiful, sure, but she’s so stuck up. She hardly speaks—you never know how to approach her. She feels like a stranger. You’re like family. That’s not the kind of bride my son needs,” Margaret sighed. “Why are you asking? You’re not in love with him, are you?”
I looked down.
“Don’t worry. If you were older, you’d be the perfect wife for him. You’ll find your love one day.”
“I don’t want another love,” I whispered, and ran out.
One time I went to ask Margaret what she needed from the shop. Fish-face opened the door.
“What do you want?” she asked rudely.
“I came to see Mrs. Collins…”
“She’s not here. Oliver took her to the hospital in the car.”
It seemed like she deliberately lifted her chin to look down on me.
“Why do you keep barging in here?” she said, her ice-chip eyes glinting.
“I don’t barge. I help Mrs. Collins—I go to the shop.”
“Some help. Stop coming. If she needs anything, I’ll do it. Oliver and I are getting married soon, and we’ll live here. Get out. Things go missing after you’ve been here,” she said roughly.
“What things?” I flared up.
“A ring. I left it on the bathroom sink. When I came back, it was gone. You took it. Who else?”
“I never go further than the hallway!” I shouted.
“I don’t know—maybe you came when I wasn’t here. Just give it back nicely, or I’ll call the police.” She leaned forward, her nasty icy eyes inches from mine. I stepped back.
“I didn’t take your ring!”
“Prove it.” She stepped closer. I couldn’t take it—I spun around, yanked the door open, and collided with Oliver.
“Why are you shouting? It’s audible on the stairs.” He looked from me to Fish-face. I turned too.
Fish-face straightened up, smiling sweetly.
“You’re back?” she said, as if nothing had happened.
I wanted to run, but Oliver held my arm.
“What’s going on?”
“She… she accused me of stealing her ring. I didn’t take anything—I didn’t even go into the bathroom.”
“What ring?” Oliver held my arm firmly, staring at Fish-face.
“The one with the pink stone. I think I lost it—I don’t know where I left it. I asked if she’d seen it,” Fish-face said in a honeyed voice.
“She’s lying! She said I took it and threatened to call the police.” I pulled my arm free and ran down the stairs, choking back tears.
“You can both go to hell!” I sobbed, bursting into our flat and slamming the door.
“What’s wrong?” Mum appeared in the hall.
“Mum!” I threw myself at her and told her everything.
“The ring will turn up. Don’t cry. Oliver will sort it out,” she comforted me.
The next day Oliver came himself. Mum was out.
“We need to talk,” he said.
I led him into my room. He saw a photo of him on the shelf and smirked. I’d forgotten about it. I blushed and looked down.
“Did you steal that from me? And you say you don’t steal.” I turned even redder.
“It’s fine, I don’t mind. I came to apologise. The ring was found.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter?” He looked away.
“Yes, it does. She called me a thief. Do you think that feels good?” My voice trembled with hurt.
He took me by the shoulders.
“Daisy, I’m sorry. I never believed you took it. Honestly. Vanessa didn’t like you coming over all the time, so she tried to frame you to keep you away. The ring—it fell out of her coat pocket when she dropped her jacket.”
“And you’ll forgive her? What if she accuses your mum of stealing? You can expect anything from her. Fish-face is ice-cold!”
“Stop it! She was just jealous.” He looked at me sternly and let go.
“Oliver! Can’t you see?”
“See what?” He looked at me with pity, clearly bored of this conversation.
“I love you!” I blurted out, shocked at my own boldness. “I’ve loved you since the fifth grade. Please don’t marry her.” Tears trembled in my eyes; his face blurred.
“Daisy, are you crying? There’s no wedding. We broke up.”
“Really?” I blinked, and tears streamed down my cheeks.
“You’re silly.” He pulled me close. “Mum’s coming home from the hospital next week. Go and help her if you can.”
“Of course! You don’t have to ask.”
Oliver left, looking sad and thoughtful, but I could have jumped for joy. No wedding!
I visited Mrs. Collins every day—shopping, mopping floors, even helping with cooking. I hardly saw Oliver; he came home late. I spent every evening on the fifth floor. Mum just shook her head.
One day I bumped into Oliver on the stairs. He reeked of alcohol.
“Oliver, have you been drinking?” I stared at him in horror, remembering Dad, the fear in Mum’s eyes…
“So what?” He swayed towards me. I stepped back, my eyes wide with fright. “Daisy, why are you looking like that? Don’t be scared—I won’t turn out like your father…” he said, suddenly sounding sober.
Then on Saturday he came to our flat with a bunch of flowers and asked me to the cinema. I was so happy!
Now Oliver didn’t stay out late—he hurried home, where I was waiting with his mum. He never drank again. We often went to the cinema, just walked around, sat in his room and kissed…
In the end, my love melted Oliver’s heart.
“Be happy, you two. Don’t hurt her, Oliver,” Mum said when he proposed.
“I promise I never will.” I leaned against him like a slender sapling against a tall oak.
