Dad Is Better – Max, we need to talk. Olga nervously fiddled with the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary creases. Her fingers shook, betraying the anxiety she tried to keep hidden beneath an even tone. Max sat opposite, glued to his phone, thumbs flying across the screen with exaggerated concentration. Intentional ignoring – his favourite weapon. – Son… I want to explain something important. No response. Only the clicking of his screen. Olga took a deep breath, bracing herself for words she’d put off for a week. – When your dad and I got divorced… it was six months before I introduced you to Simon. I didn’t rush, you see? I wanted to be sure it was serious. Max’s fingers froze above the screen. The teenager slowly looked up, his eyes burning with outrage so fierce Olga involuntarily drew back. – Serious? – he hissed through clenched teeth. – You think it’s serious with him, this random bloke? He’s not fit to lick Dad’s boots! Dad’s better than anyone! Memories of their first meeting flashed painfully before Max’s eyes. The tall stranger at their flat’s doorway, mum’s nervous smile, the smell of unfamiliar aftershave in the hall. An invader, boldly occupying the sacred place of his father. – He’s not a stranger, – Olga replied gently. – He’s my husband. – Your husband! – Max threw his phone onto the table. – But to me he’s nobody! My dad is Dad. And this guy… He didn’t finish, but the contempt in his voice said more than words. Simon tried, God, how he tried. He’d disappear to the garage in the evenings, hunched over Max’s battered bike. Hands covered in grease, brow damp with sweat, a stubborn smile on his lips – the face of a man determined to win, whatever the cost. – See, fixed the frame, – he’d say, wiping his hands. – You can ride tomorrow? No answer. Just icy, ringing silence. At night, Simon sat with the boy at his desk, explaining equations in simple words. – Look, if we move the x over here… – Yeah, I get it, – Max cut him off, though he clearly didn’t. Anything just to get rid of him. Every morning, the kitchen would fill with the scent of fresh pancakes with honey – Max’s favourite treat. Simon would stack them carefully on a plate, set them in front of his stepson. – Dad made them thinner, – Max would mutter, barely touching his food. – And he bought real honey. This stuff tastes rubbish. Every act of care crashed against a wall of frosty indifference. The teenager seemed to collect reasons for sharp jabs, turning every little thing into proof for comparison. – Dad never raised his voice. – Dad always knew what I liked. – Dad did everything right. Olga and Simon’s wedding shattered the fragile ceasefire. Max saw the marriage certificate as betrayal – final and irrevocable. Home became a minefield. Every morning began with tension, every evening ended with a slammed door. Max became a secret agent without realising. He logged every slip-up from his stepdad with the precision of a detective. A sharp word at dinner – recorded. An irritated sigh over homework – remembered. A weary “not now” after work – added to his bank of grudges. – Dad, he shouted at me again, – Max would whisper into the phone, locked in his room. – Really? – Andrew would tut with fake sympathy. – My poor boy. Remember when we used to go to the park every weekend, huh? – I remember… – That was a real family. Not like it is now. Andrew painted vivid pictures in Max’s stories, everyday spats becoming dramas of cruelty. He’d paint an idealised past: the sun brighter, the grass greener, and Dad never made mistakes. Simon felt like an unwelcome guest in his own home. Every glance from Max screamed: you don’t belong. You’re occupying someone else’s spot. You’ll never be part of the family. Fatigue built up, layer upon layer, pressing down with invisible weight. It all fell apart one ordinary evening at dinner. – You’ve got no right to tell me what to do! – Max exploded when Simon asked him to put his phone away. – You’re nothing to me! Do you hear? Nothing! Olga froze, fork in hand. Something snapped inside her. Her son stared at her husband with such hatred it thickened the air. – My dad’s better than you in every way. And you… you just… Dad says you ruin everything! I’d be better off with him! – That’s enough, – Olga said softly. – That’s enough. The next morning she dialled her ex-husband’s number. Her fingers trembled, but her resolve held strong. – Andrew, – she began evenly, – since you think you’re the better parent, take Max. For good. I won’t stand in the way. I’ll even pay child support. The silence stretched on for an eternity. – Well… you see… it’s just… – Andrew started rambling – work, business trips… I’d love to, but… He stalled, rustled some papers, coughed. – And, well, Natasha… my girlfriend… she’s not really ready for a kid at home. We’ve only just moved in together, still getting used to it… Pathetic excuses from the man who had turned his son against her new family. Who phoned every evening, whispered poisonous words, fanned every spark of discontent into a blaze. And now – a one-bed flat. Renovations. Natasha not ready. – I understand, Andrew, – Olga said coolly. – Thanks for being honest. She hung up before he could reply. That evening Olga called Max into the lounge. He flopped into an armchair, his usual defiant pose, but something in his mother’s eyes made him quieten. – Today I spoke with your father. The teenager tensed, leaned forward. – What did he say? Olga sat opposite him. – He’s not ready to take you. Not now, not ever. He has a new life, a new partner, and you’re not part of it. – You’re lying! You’re always lying! – Max spluttered. – Dad loves me! He said so himself… – Talking’s easy, – Olga said quietly, seriously. – But when I offered for him to have you, he remembered his renovations and his one-bed flat. Max opened his mouth, but found nothing to say. – Now listen carefully. – Olga leaned in. – No more comparisons. No more spy games, no more reports to Daddy, no more rudeness to Simon. Either we’re a family. All three of us. Or you go live with Dad, who doesn’t want you. I’ll work something out, I’ll make him take you. And then you’ll see for yourself what your father’s really like. Max sat frozen, wide pupils the only sign he’d heard every word. – Mum… – I’m not joking. – Olga looked at him with not a hint of a smile. – I love you more than life. But I won’t let you ruin my marriage. Your behaviour’s been awful. I tolerated it for ages. But no more. You choose. Max froze. The world, once so clear – good Dad vs evil stepdad – suddenly shattered. His father didn’t want him. Dad chose Natasha, and the new flat. Dad… just used him to spite his mum? The painful truth crept in. All the calls, the sympathy, the questions “what else did he do?” – it wasn’t care. It was a weapon. Andrew stockpiled ammo for his own petty revenge, and Max unwittingly supplied it. The teenager swallowed a lump in his throat. And Simon? That same Simon, who he’d tormented for months? Who stubbornly fixed his bike while Max purposely avoided the garage? Who got up early each morning to make pancakes? Who didn’t leave, didn’t give up, never stopped trying – despite everything… …Changing was hard. For weeks, Max hid in his room, avoiding Simon’s eyes. Too ashamed to admit he’d acted like a child. Every time he saw his stepdad, he remembered his own words – “you’re nobody to me” – and wanted the ground to swallow him up. Everyone tiptoed around. Conversations were careful, indirect. The house felt like intensive care, the patient hovering between life and death. The first step came with a physics assignment. Max spent two hours hunched over it, chewing his pencil, finally summoned the courage to admit defeat. – Simon… – the name stuck, almost choking him. – Can you help? I’m stuck on these vectors. His stepdad looked up from his laptop. No surprise, no triumph, just quiet acceptance. – Let’s have a look. A month later, they went fishing together. Sitting on the riverbank, watching their floats, Max suddenly started talking – about school, about mates, about the girl he liked from the next class. No brooding, no comparisons. Just talking. Simon listened, nodded, offered comments now and then. And Max understood: this was real family. Not in grand words about love, not in rose-tinted memories. In quiet breakfasts. In patience. In sticking around when the odds are stacked against you. The boy made his choice. The right one…