There are times when I wonder if my mother has a heart at all—or rather, an endless well of patience. Five years ago, my father wronged her so deeply that even now, I struggle to speak of it without anger. And yet? She smiles softly and says, “What’s done is done. He came back, remorseful, asking for forgiveness… He wants to return, to live together again…”
But my brother and I? We refuse. Because we remember everything. To forget would be a betrayal of ourselves. They had been together nearly forty years, climbing from a cramped dormitory to a grand countryside home near London. First, a tiny flat, then a two-bedroom, then three, and finally—a lavish four-bedroom house in Surrey. Father loved the finer things—a new luxury car every other year, renovations “just like proper folk,” the best appliances money could buy.
And then there was his secretary. Quite literally, he couldn’t keep his eyes—or hands—off her. Then came the day she told him she was expecting. Too late for anything but acceptance. So he decided, “I love her. I’ll build a new life.” Had he simply walked away, it might have been bearable. But no. He began dividing their possessions as though we were strangers. “Have I shortchanged myself?” he’d mutter.
By then, I was already married, living apart. But my brother stayed with Mum. Our father had promised him a flat for his wedding—a promise that shattered with the betrayal. No flat, no generosity. He kept the house, the garage, the cars, and stripped the home of anything he deemed “his.” Even locked Mum out of their shared accounts—his “new family” needed the money now.
For months afterward, he came and went like a man clocking in for work—first for his favourite chair, then a set of crystal glasses. Only when my brother changed the locks did it stop. Eventually, we helped Mum downsize so my brother and his wife could have their own place. Father wasn’t invited to the wedding—nor did he insist. After he left, money was tight, but we managed.
Mum returned to her old job—her expertise in finance welcomed with open arms. My brother and I stepped up too, and slowly, things steadied. But for Father? Fortune turned. His health faltered, and the young wife he’d trusted so blindly cast him out. This time, he didn’t bother dividing property—he left her the house, took only his car, and moved into a hotel.
And then… the calls began. Tearful, pleading: “Forgive me, I was a fool… Let’s make it right…” And do you know what? She listened. She came to us and said, “Your father wants to reconcile… Should we give him another chance?”
My brother and I were speechless. We told her plainly: if she took him back, we’d never step foot in that house again. We love her, always will, but to welcome a betrayer isn’t forgiveness—it’s self-disrespect.
And we no longer call him “Father.” Because a man who abandons his family for fleeting happiness forfeits the right to that name.
