Dad left because he found out about Mum’s affair with a colleague. The house erupted into a massive row.
*”What did you expect? I’m alone all the bloody time! You’re always at work, day and night. I’m a woman—I need attention!”*
*”Oh yeah? How about I make sure your *attentive* Richard gets locked up, eh? Plant something on him, and he’s done. How’s that sound?”* Dad’s voice was ice-cold, furious. He was a detective in the Met.
*”You wouldn’t dare! You wouldn’t! You’re the one who ruined everything!”*
Mum sank onto the sofa, crying. Dad had already packed his few belongings and was heading for the door. I stood in the hallway, blocking the way to the living room, ready to throw myself at his feet to stop him. What kind of madness was this? We’d always been a close, happy family. Mum and Dad never fought—they told the same stupid jokes, laughed at the same things. Sure, Dad worked long hours, came home exhausted, just wanting sleep. But the time we *did* have together? That was good. Really good. How could Mum wreck it all? And why wouldn’t Dad just forgive her?
*”Greg, don’t go,”* Mum begged, lifting her face from her hands. *”Please, forgive me! Stay. Tom, stop bloody eavesdropping!”*
But I didn’t move. Stood right in the doorway. Twelve years old, convinced I could stop them from smashing what I thought was a perfect family.
*”Tom, move,”* Dad said, deadly serious. That was his *work* voice. Not his *home* voice. Never his *us* voice.
*”Don’t go.”*
*”Move. Now.”*
Same tone.
*”Dad… what about me?”*
He shoved me aside like a piece of furniture and walked out. I think he rushed because if he didn’t, he might’ve done something stupid. Not just hit Mum in the heat of it—he had his service weapon. His eyes were so full of rage, leaving was the right call. I get that now. But that day? He became the man who pushed me aside like a chair. And Mum? She was the one who made it happen.
Richard, of course, turned out to be a right prat and dumped Mum soon after. She was left in a right mess—husband gone, lover bolted, son blaming her for everything. It was rough. And then I made it worse.
I started staying out late, fell in with a bad crowd. Petty theft at first, then we got bolder. Got caught trying to rob some rich kid—not all of us, just me and Dave. Dad, now a DCI, turned up at the station where they were holding me. Our surname was unusual—Fox—and my middle name wasn’t William, but Gregory. Someone recognised it, called him.
*”Get up. You’re leaving,”* Dad barked.
*”Piss off,”* I muttered through gritted teeth.
He dragged me out of the cell.
*”What about Dave?”* I yelled, fighting back.
Dad hauled me into an interview room and smacked me hard across the face—twice. Blood and tears smeared my cheeks as I hated him more than ever.
*”How old are you now?”*
*”What?”*
*”Fifteen? Sixteen?”*
I almost laughed.
*”Congrats! You don’t even know how old your own son is!”*
*”That’s because you’re not *mine*,”* he snapped. *”I married your mum when she was already pregnant. Thought she’d be a decent wife. But she was just a—”* He swore, viciously.
*”So who is?”* I asked dully.
He handed me a tissue and a bottle of water. I wiped my face. Greg sat down opposite me.
*”Sorry I hit you. You really let me down. Think I don’t have enough on my plate?”*
*”Then go deal with it,”* I muttered.
*”Tom… on paper, you’re mine. I pay your mum maintenance, always have. But if you keep this up? I’ll wash my hands of you. Let ’em lock you up—not my problem.”*
*”And now?”*
*”What about now?”*
*”Will they lock me up now?”*
He shook his head.
*”What about Dave?”*
*”Dave’s got his own dad. Proper family, money. They’ll sort it. Worry about yourself. You lot think prison’s a laugh, do you? It’s hell. Juvenile wing? Hell squared.”*
I didn’t want prison. I was just miserable, couldn’t stand looking at Mum. So I… distracted myself. Told Greg as much.
*”Bottom line—no one’s choosing for you. Either sort yourself out—school, future—or keep being a little toe-rag and end up dead or banged up. Don’t want prison? Change. Now sod off.”*
I walked out. At the door, Dad’s voice stopped me:
*”And don’t blame your mum. Divorce is always on both of ’em. What I said about her? Heat of the moment. Forget it.”*
*”Greg… Dad, you love each other! Can’t you just make up?”* No hope in my voice.
*”Forget that too, son.”*
The lads from our gang weren’t happy I’d walked. Had to scrap a few times, came home bruised. But I got clear. Dave’s dad got him probation—he went back to the same rubbish. I didn’t.
Forgave Mum. Proper tried, anyway. Thought about asking who my real dad was, but… never did. Too busy digging myself out of the hole I’d made with school.
Caught up, got decent marks, applied to a few police colleges.
*”You’ve lost the plot!”* Mum cried. *”That’s no life! Look at your dad—no life at all!”*
I *did* think about Dad a lot. But we never saw each other. No hard feelings, just… nothing. Graduated, got my commission, turned up at his station unannounced. Didn’t want anything from him. Just to show him I’d made the right choice. Stayed straight.
Dad was still DCI. Never moved up. Guess he was happy. Knocked on his office door.
*”Sir. Lieutenant Fox. Permission to enter?”*
*”Tom?”* He looked stunned.
So Mum kept her word. Never told him.
*”Bloody hell, son. At ease. Sit, talk.”*
He made tea. Offered whisky—I refused. Talked for an hour, maybe. Dad took a few work calls. His temples were greyer, face lined. This stranger—this *not*-stranger—watched me with wet eyes. Wiped them. Bloke was choked. Why?
Told him about my work, my plans. Talked football, politics. Time to go.
*”Right, Dad, I’d better—”*
I stood.
*”Wait. Where you off to? Don’t go.”* Greg stood too. *”Come work with us, eh?”*
I hesitated. Did I want to work under him? Yeah. Yeah, I think I’d missed him. Ten bloody years. I sat back down.
*”Not leaving?”* he asked.
*”Nah. I’ve got time to leave later.”*
