Sometimes it feels like my mum doesn’t have a heart but an endless ocean of patience. Five years ago, my father treated her so cruelly that I still can’t speak of it without shaking. And her? She just smiles calmly and says, *”What’s done is done. He came back, full of remorse, begged for forgiveness… Wants to return, to live together again…”*
But my brother and I? We refuse. Because we remember everything. To forget would be to betray ourselves. They were together nearly forty years. Went from a cramped student flat to a grand countryside home in Surrey. First a shoebox of a room, then a two-bed, a three-bed, and finally—an extravagant four-bed house just outside London. Father loved the high life. A new car every other year, renovations *”done properly,”* top-tier appliances.
And then there was his secretary. Quite literally—he couldn’t keep his eyes (or hands) off her. Then one day, she told him she was pregnant. Too late for an abortion. So he decided: *”I love her. I’ll build a new family!”* Had he just left quietly, it might’ve been different. But no. He picked through their possessions like a vulture, muttering, *”Haven’t I shortchanged myself?”*
I was already married by then, living separately. But my brother still lived with Mum. Our father had promised him a flat for his wedding—empty words now. He took the house, the garage, the car, even cleared out what he deemed *”his”* from the home. Left Mum locked out of their joint account, claiming his *”new family”* needed the money.
For months, he’d drop by like clockwork—first for his favourite chair, then a set of whiskey glasses. Only when my brother changed the locks did it stop. We helped Mum downsize, so he and his wife could have their own place. Dad wasn’t invited to the wedding—not that he pressed the matter. After he left, money was tight, but we managed.
Mum went back to her old job—a seasoned accountant welcomed with open arms. My brother and I pitched in, and slowly, things stabilised. Meanwhile, Father’s life unravelled. His health faltered; the young wife he’d trusted so much kicked him out. This time, there was no haggling—he left her the house, took only the car, and moved into a budget hotel.
And then—the calls. Tearful, grovelling: *”I was a fool… Let’s make it right…”* And would you believe it? She listened! Came to us saying, *”Your father wants to reconcile… Maybe we give him a chance?”*
My brother and I were speechless. We said it plain: if she took him back, we wouldn’t step foot in that house again. We’d love her, support her—but forgiving a betrayal like that wasn’t mercy, it was self-abandonment.
And we won’t call him *”Dad”* anymore. A man who trades his family for a phantom of happiness doesn’t deserve the name.
