One Ordinary Day My Dad Called Me Into His Room for a Serious Talk—Or So He Said. I Was Worried, but in the Living Room, a Woman Was Waiting My Family Has Always Revolved Around My Father Who Raised Me, Supported Me, and Stood by Me Unconditionally Since My Mum Left When I Was Born. Despite His Own Hardships and Choosing Never to Remarry, He Did Everything for Me, and I Wanted to Grow Up Quickly to Help Him. Because of Our Finances, I Started Working at 15—First Writing for Local Newspapers, Then Moving on to Better Jobs, and Eventually Landing an Office Position That Allowed Me to Support Us Both. Then One Day, My Dad Called Me for a Serious Conversation, and I Went in Nervous, Only to Find a Woman in the Sitting Room—Whom, According to My Dad, Was My Mum. Upon Seeing Me, She Burst into Tears, Apologising and Wanting to Hug Me, but I Couldn’t Bring Myself to Embrace Her. I Pulled Away Gently and Left Without Another Word, Leaving the Two of Them Alone. I Decided to Let My Dad Handle It as He Thought Best, Because I Can’t Forgive Someone Who Abandoned Us and Never Even Bothered to Wish Me Happy Birthday All These Years.

One afternoon, my dad called me into his study, claiming he wanted to chat about something serious. I’ll admit, I was somewhat concerned. Whenever Dad says serious, it usually revolves around running out of milk or someone nicking his favourite mug at work. In the sitting room, however, there was an unfamiliar woman waiting.

Our little family has always revolved around Dad. Hes the one who raised me, kept me in new school shoes, and never once forgot to show up to a single parents’ evening. My mum, on the other hand, left us shortly after I was born, and Dad never remarriedthe poor man probably didnt fancy repeating heartbreak as a hobby. Life hasnt exactly rolled out the red carpet for him, and from a young age, I was determined to grow up fast and be the responsible one in the house.

Given our bank accounts tendency to hover around zero, I started working at fifteen. My first gig was penning local news stories for The Windshire Gazette, glamorous stuff like Village Fête Cancelled Due to Rain. Three years later, I landed something slightly less embarrassing. A couple of years after that, I scored an office job. Proper desk, endless biscuits, the works. It meant I could pay my way and help keep Dad in the quality Yorkshire Tea he insists is a human right.

Then, one day, Dad summoned me for one of his dramatic we need to talk announcements. I braced myself for news of a moth infestation or another stern lecture about closing the front door. But sitting there, perched on our lumpy sofa, was a woman Dad introduced as my mother.

When she saw me, she burst into tears like a contestant on The Great British Bake Off whose soufflé had collapsed, sobbing apologies and stretching out for a hug. I hesitated, then gently untangled myself from her arms and left, speechless, leaving the two of them alone. I decided to let Dad handle it in whatever way seemed best to him. I simply cant forgive someone who walked out on Dad and me with the emotional dexterity of a weather forecaster, never bothering for so much as a birthday card all these years.