Father left when he discovered Mum’s affair with a colleague. The house erupted into a horrific row.
“What did you expect?” Mum screamed. “I’m always alone! You’re at work day and night. I’m a woman—I need attention!”
“And what would you say if I locked up your precious *Barry*? Plant something on him, shut him away, eh?” Dad’s voice was icy with fury. He was a detective in the Metropolitan Police.
“You wouldn’t dare! You wouldn’t! You ruined everything yourself!”
Mum collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing. Dad had already packed his few belongings and was heading for the door. I stood in the hallway, blocking his path, ready to throw myself down if it meant stopping him. How absurd. We’d always been a happy family—Mum and Dad never fought, shared the same jokes, laughed together. Yes, Dad worked long hours, often coming home exhausted, desperate for sleep. But the time we did spend as a family felt good. How could Mum wreck it all like this? And would Dad really never forgive her?
“Greg, don’t go,” Mum pleaded, lifting her tear-streaked face. “Forgive me! Stay. *Charlie*, stop eavesdropping!”
But I didn’t move. Twelve years old, convinced I could stop them from tearing apart what I believed was a perfect home.
“Charlie, move,” Dad ordered, his tone sharp—the same one he used on the job. Not at home. Not with us.
“Don’t leave,” I begged.
“Let me pass!”
Still that detached coldness.
“Dad… what about me?”
He shoved me aside like a piece of furniture and walked out. I realised then he left in a hurry—not just to avoid hitting Mum in rage, but because he carried his service weapon. His eyes burned with something terrifying. Now I understand. But that day, he became the man who pushed me away like a chair, and Mum became the one who destroyed our lives.
Barry, of course, turned out to be a coward and left Mum too. She was devastated—husband gone, lover vanished, son blaming her for it all. It wasn’t easy for her, and then there was me…
I started staying out late, running with a bad crowd. Petty theft at first, then bolder crimes. We got caught robbing some rich kid—not all of us. His security grabbed two: me and Mike. Dad, by then a chief inspector, showed up at the station. Our surname—Falconer—was rare, and my middle name wasn’t Peter but *Gregory*. Someone recognised him and called.
“Let’s go,” Dad said.
“Sod off,” I hissed.
He dragged me out of the cell.
“What about Mike?” I shouted, struggling.
Dad hauled me into an interrogation room and punched me twice—hard. Wiping blood and tears, I hated him more than ever.
“How old are you?”
“*What?*”
“Fifteen? Sixteen?”
I almost laughed.
“Congrats—you don’t even know your own son’s age!”
“That’s because you’re *not mine*,” he roared. “I married Sally when she was already pregnant. Thought she’d be a good wife. But she was always a—” He swore viciously.
“Then who’s my dad?” I asked numbly.
He handed me a tissue and a bottle of water. “Sorry I hit you,” he muttered, sitting opposite me. “You really disappointed me. Think I don’t have enough problems?”
“Then go deal with them.”
“Charlie… legally, you’re mine. I pay your mum child support. But if this keeps up—I’ll wash my hands of you. Let them lock you up. Not my problem.”
“And now?”
“What now?”
“Will they… lock me up now?”
He shook his head.
“What about Mike?”
“Mike’s got his own dad. Wealthy family. They’ll sort it. You worry about *your* life. You think prison’s some kind of holiday? It’s hell. Juvenile detention? Hell cubed.”
I didn’t want prison. I just *hurt*—from life, from Mum. So I distracted myself. I told Dad as much.
“Your choice, then. Either clean up—school, future, the lot. Or keep down this path, where people end up dead or worse. Don’t want prison? Change.”
I turned to leave. At the door, his voice stopped me.
“And don’t blame your mum. Divorce is always on both of them. What I said earlier—that was anger. Forget it.”
“Greg… Dad, you *loved* each other. Couldn’t you…?”
“Forget that too, son.”
The lads didn’t want me out. A few fights, a couple of bruises, but I broke free. Mike got probation and went back to his old ways. I chose differently.
I forgave Mum. Really tried. Thought about asking who my real father was—but didn’t. Too busy fixing my grades, drowning in catch-up work.
I turned things around, applied to several police academies.
“Are you *mad*?” Mum cried. “That’s no life! Remember your father!”
I did remember him. But we never saw each other. No hard feelings, just… silence. After graduation, I showed up at his station unannounced—not for anything except to prove I’d chosen right.
Dad was still DCI. Never climbed higher. Guess he was happy.
I knocked.
“Lieutenant Falconer, sir. Permission to enter?”
“Charlie?” He looked stunned.
So Mum had kept her word—never told him.
“Bloody hell, son. At ease. Sit—talk to me.”
We drank tea (he offered whisky; I declined) for an hour between his work calls. His temples had greyed, his face lined. This stranger who was also my father watched me with wet eyes.
I shared my plans. Talked football, politics. Eventually, I stood.
“Right, Dad—better go.”
He stood too.
“Wait. Wait—where’re you going? Stay. Transfer to my division, eh?”
I thought. Did I want to work under him? Yes. Maybe I’d missed him all these years.
“Not leaving?” he asked.
“Not yet. Plenty of time for that.”
In the end, family isn’t just blood—it’s the choices we make, the forgiveness we offer, and the people who stay even when they don’t have to.
