Sometimes it feels like my mum doesn’t have a heart—just this bottomless ocean of patience. Five years ago, my dad treated her so horribly, I still can’t talk about it without my blood boiling. And her? She just smiles and says, “What’s done is done. He came back, said he was sorry, begged for forgiveness… Wants to come home, start over…”
But me and my brother? We’re dead against it. Because we remember everything. And forgetting something like that—it’s like betraying yourself. They were together nearly forty years. Went from a tiny flat in London to a big countryside house in Surrey. Started with one cramped room, then a two-bed, then a three—finally, a massive four-bed penthouse, and later, the dream house outside the city. Dad loved the high life. Fancy cars every couple of years, posh renovations, top-notch appliances.
And then there was his secretary. Literally chasing after her skirts for years. Then one day, she told him she was pregnant—too late for anything but keeping it. So Dad said, “I love her, I’m starting a new family!” If he’d just left quietly, fine. But no. He turned into a solicitor overnight, dividing assets like we were strangers. Kept asking himself, “Did I shortchange myself?”
I was married by then, living separately with my husband. But my brother lived with Mum. Dad had promised him a flat for his wedding—but after the split? Just empty words. No flat. Took the house, the garage, the car, even cleared out the penthouse of everything he called “his.” Left Mum locked out of their bank account—said his “new family” needed the money now.
For months after, Dad kept dropping by like he was clocking in for work—one day for his favourite chair, the next for his whisky glasses. Only stopped when my brother changed the locks. That’s when we helped Mum downsize so my brother and his wife could have their own place. Dad wasn’t invited to the wedding—didn’t even push it. After he left, money got tight, but we managed.
Mum went back to her old job—turns out, senior accountants are always in demand. Me and my brother buckled down, and bit by bit, things balanced out. But Dad? Not so lucky. His health tanked, and that young wife he trusted so much kicked him out. This time, he didn’t even fight—handed her the house, kept the car, and moved into a hotel.
Then the calls started. Begging Mum, “I was an idiot, forgive me… Let’s fix this.” And guess what? She listened! Came to us saying, “Your dad wants to make amends… Maybe we give him a chance?”
Me and my brother were speechless. Said flat out: if you take him back, we won’t step foot in that house again. We love you, we’ll always be there for you—but running back to a traitor? That’s not forgiveness, that’s disrespecting yourself.
And we won’t call him “Dad” anymore. Because someone who abandons his family for a fantasy doesn’t get to be a father twice.
