Dad’s the Best: A Heartfelt Tale of Family Battles, Changing Loyalties, and Growing Up in Modern England

Author Walton MerrittReading 8 minViews 2

Jack, we need to talk.

Helen fusses with the tablecloth, smoothing out invisible creases, her hands betraying the nervousness she tries so hard to hide behind a steady voice. Jack sits across from her, nose buried in his phone, thumbs flying over the screen, tapping away with exaggerated focus. His favourite movepretending not to notice.

Son I want to explain something important.

No response. Just the tapping on glass.

Helen takes a deep breath. Shed been putting off this conversation for a week, but now it’s unavoidable.

When your dad and I split up it was six months before I introduced you to Simon. I didnt rush it, you see? Wanted to be sure it was serious.

Jacks thumbs hover. He looks up slowly, teenage irritation blazing in his eyes. Helen recoils slightly, caught off guard.

Serious? he bites out. You really think things are serious with him, that random bloke? Hes not worth my dads little finger! Dads still the best!

Jack remembers their first meeting so clearly it aches: a tall stranger at their flat door, mums nervous smile, the unfamiliar scent of aftershave lingering in the hallway. An intruder. Someone occupying the sacred space of his father.

Hes not some stranger, Helen insists gently. Hes my husband.

Your husband! Jack slams the phone down. Hes nothing to me! My fatherDadis my dad. And this

He trails off, but the contempt carries through loud and clear.

Simon genuinely tries. He really does. Evenings spent hunched in the garage, working on Jacks bent bike, his hands stained with oil, sweat on his brow, a determined smile on his lips, refusing to give up.

Look, fixed the frame, hed say, wiping his hands on a rag. Ready for a ride tomorrow?

Nothing but silence. Cold, echoing silence.

Most nights, Simon sits beside Jack at the desk, explaining equations in simple terms.

If you move the x over here

I get it, Jack interrupts, even though he clearly doesnt.

Anything to end the conversation.

Every morning the kitchen smells of fresh pancakes with honeyJacks favourite. Simon stacks them carefully on a plate, setting them before his stepson.

Dad made them thinner, Jack mutters, barely touching his food. And he bought proper honey. Not the cheap stuff, like this. This tastes awful.

Every sign of care breaks against Jacks wall of indifference, each act of kindness dismissed with sharp comparisons.

Dad never shouted at me.
Dad always knew what I liked.
Dad did everything right.

Helen and Simons wedding shattered a fragile truce. To Jack, the wedding certificate felt like betrayalfinal and absolute. Home became a minefield. Mornings started in strained silence, evenings ended with slamming doors.

Jack transforms into a covert agent, noting every slip Simon makes with forensic detail. A harsh word at dinnerrecorded. An exasperated sigh over homeworkremembered. A tired not now after workadded to his mounting list of grievances.

Dad, he yelled at me again, Jack whispers into his mobile, locked in his room.

Really? Paul tuts on the other end, feigning concern. Poor lad. Do you remember our weekend trips to Hyde Park? Every Saturday, eh?

Yeah, I remember

Now that was real family. Not like now.

Paul paints an idyllic past: golden sunshine, greener grass, a father who never slipped up.

Simon feels like an unwelcome guest in his own home, every glance from Jack screaming: you dont belong. Youre not part of this family.

The exhaustion builds, higher each day, heavy on his shoulders.

It all falls apart one ordinary evening at dinner.

Youve got no right to discipline me! Jack erupts when Simon asks him to put his phone away. Youre nothing to me! Got it? Nothing!

Helen freezes, fork in mid-air. Something inside her cracks. Her son stares at Simon with raw hatred, the air thick between them.

My dads a million times better than you. You just Dad says you ruin everything! Life was better when it was just him and me!

Thats enough, Helen says quietly. Ive had it.

The next morning, she dials her ex. Her hand shakes, but shes resolute.

Paul, she says evenly, if you see yourself as the better parent, take Jack. Permanently. Ill pay maintenance, if that helps.

Silence stretches over the line.

Well you see its not a great time Paul stammers. Work, travel I would, but

He shuffles papers. Coughs nervously.

And, Helen my flats tiny, Ive got builders in doing the bathroom. And workyou know, the hours are all over the place.

Helen lets him flounder.

And then, Debbiemy girlfriendshes not exactly ready for a kid around the place. Weve only just moved in together and its complicated.

The desperate excuses from the same man who set Jack against her new family, who calls to stoke every spark of discontent. And nowthe single bedroom flat. Renovations. Debbie isnt ready.

I understand, Paul, Helen says, steady as a rock. Thanks for being honest.

She hangs up before he can reply.

That evening Helen calls Jack into the sitting room. He flops into the armchair, challenging as ever, but something in her gaze quiets him.

I spoke to your father today.

Jack tenses, leans forward.

And? What did he say?

Helen sits opposite.

Hes not willing to take you. Not now, not ever. Hes got a new life, a new girlfriend, and theres no space for you.

Youre lying! Youre making it up! Jack bursts out. Dad loves me! He said

Talks cheap, Helen says softly, her tone measured. But when I offered, he mentioned his flat and renovations.

Jack opens his mouth, but no words come.

Now listen closely. Helen leans in. No more comparisons. No more secret reports to your dad, no more rudeness to Simon. Either we are a familythe three of usor you go to your father, who doesnt want you. Ill make it work. Youll see yourself what hes really like.

Jack sits frozen, eyes wide, taking in every word.

Mum

Im not joking. Helen meets his gaze, deadly serious. I love you more than anythingbut I wont let you destroy my marriage. Youve crossed the line and Ive let it go for too long. But this is it. You choose.

Jack is stunned. The world, so cleargood dad versus bad stepdadcrumbles. His dad wont take him. His dad picked Debbie and the builders. His dad used him, just to spite his mum.

The painful realisation creeps in. Those evening calls, the sympathetic tuts, the endless what else has he done?were not care. They were weapons. Paul was gathering ammunition, and Jack supplied it willingly.

Jack swallows the lump in his throat.

And Simon? Simon, who Jacks bullied for months? Who patiently straightened his bike frame as Jack marched past the garage? Who wakes early each day to make pancakes? Who never leaves, never gives up, carries on trying, no matter what?

Change comes slowly. For weeks, Jack hides in his bedroom, avoiding Simons gaze. Guilt burns every time he remembers snapping, Youre nothing to me. He wishes the ground would swallow him.

Everyone tiptoes around, speaking carefully, choosing their words. The house feels like a ward in a critical-care unit, balancing between hope and collapse.

The breakthrough comes over a physics assignment. Jack battles with it for two hours, chews his pencil to bits, and finally, swallowing pride, admits defeat.

Simon The name sticks. Can you help? Somethings off with these vectors.

Simon looks up from his laptop. No surprise, no gloatingjust calm acceptance.

Lets have a look.

A month later, they go fishing together. Sitting on the bank, watching the bobbers, Jack starts talkingabout school, mates, a girl in his year he likes. No complaints, no comparisons. Just a conversation.

Simon listens, nods, sometimes offers advice of his own. Jack realises: this is what family means. Not declarations of love, not idealised memories. Its found in quiet breakfasts, in patience, in the will to stay when everythings gone wrong.

Jack makes his choice. The right one.

Please… don’t leave me on my own again. Not tonight. Those were the final words whispered by 68-year-old retired officer Arthur Collins before collapsing onto his living room floor in a quiet English village. The only living soul to hear him was the same companion who’d heard every word over the last nine years—his faithful, aging K9 partner, Bramble. Arthur was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve—retirement and widowhood hadn’t changed that. Neighbours knew him as the silent widower, shuffling through evening lanes with his old German Shepherd, both matching each other’s measured pace, two war-weary souls burdened by time. To everyone else, they seemed to need nothing, nor anyone. Everything changed that chilly evening. Bramble, dozing by the radiator, snapped to attention at the thud of Arthur hitting the floor. He sensed the fear, the laboured breathing, and with aching joints made his way to his partner’s side. Arthur’s breathing was shallow, his hands grasping for something unseen. Bramble didn’t understand the words, but the meaning rang clear—fear, pain, goodbye. With a desperate bark, Bramble clawed at the door, his cries ringing out until Molly—Arthur’s young neighbour who often brought him warm scones—came running. She sensed the alarm in Bramble’s bark—a frantic, pleading call for help. Seeing Arthur through the window, Molly scrambled for the spare key hidden under the plant pot, her hands shaking. She found Arthur motionless, and Bramble whimpering at his side as she dialled 999 in terror. Paramedics soon filled the small cottage with urgent energy. Bramble, ever the guardian, refused to be parted from Arthur, growling softly until one paramedic—Tom—recognised the service dog’s badge and spoke gently. “We’re here to help your mate, pal. Let us through.” With narrowed eyes and a heavy heart, Bramble allowed them close, keeping his head against Arthur’s foot as they worked. As Arthur was lifted onto the stretcher, his hand fell limp, and Bramble let out a heartbroken howl that silenced the room. When the ambulance doors opened, Bramble tried to follow, collapsing on the gravel in despair. “We can’t bring the dog,” the driver insisted. But as Arthur whispered, barely conscious, “Bramble…,” Tom broke the rules. “Let him in. He’s part of this team.” Bramble was lifted into the ambulance, pressing close to Arthur as the machines steadied their beeps. Four hours later, in a softly lit NHS hospital room, Arthur awoke to the gentle sound of Bramble’s breathing. The nurse pulled back the curtain to reveal Bramble resting on a blanket—the hospital had made an exception. Every time Bramble was taken away, Arthur’s vitals had faltered. Even the doctor agreed—they belonged together. Tears filled Arthur’s eyes as Bramble limped to his side, resting his head by Arthur’s hand. “I thought I was leaving you behind,” Arthur whispered. Bramble gently licked the tears away. From the doorway, the nurse smiled through her own tears. “He didn’t just save your life, Mr Collins. I think you saved his, too.” That night, Arthur faced the darkness hand in paw with Bramble, his loyal friend—two old partners, together against the world, silently promising never to leave each other alone again. Let this story touch the hearts that need it most. 💖

Dad’s Always Better – Max, we need to talk. Olga fussed nervously with the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary creases with trembling fingers betraying the worry hidden behind her steady tone. Max sat opposite, nose buried in his phone, thumbs darting across the screen in exaggerated focus. Deliberate ignoring – his favourite weapon. – Son… I need to explain something important. No response. Just clicks from the touchscreen. Olga took a deep breath, summoning courage for words she’d put off for a week. – When your dad and I divorced… it was six months before I introduced you to Steve. I didn’t rush, you see? I wanted to be sure it was serious. Max’s fingers froze above the phone. The teenager looked up slowly, outrage burning so fiercely in his eyes that Olga recoiled. – Serious? – he spat through clenched teeth. – You think it’s really serious with him, with some random guy? He’s not even worth Dad’s little finger! Dad’s still the best! Memories of that first meeting flashed sharply before Max’s eyes. The tall stranger on their doorstep, Mum’s nervous smile, the scent of foreign cologne in the hallway. An invader brazenly occupying Dad’s sacred place. – He’s not a stranger, – Olga protested gently. – He’s my husband. – YOUR husband! – Max slammed his phone down. – He’s not MY anything! My dad is Dad. This one… He left the rest unsaid, but the contempt in his voice said everything. Steve really tried. Oh God, did he try. Every evening, he disappeared into the garage, bending over Max’s battered bike. Blackened hands, a sweat-streaked brow, and that stubborn smile of a man determined to win at any cost. – Fixed the frame, – he’d say, wiping his hands. – You can ride it tomorrow? Silence in reply. Cold, ringing silence. At night, Steve sat with Max at the desk, explaining equations in simple terms. – Here, if you move the x over here… – I get it, – Max cut him off, though he clearly didn’t. Just wanted him gone. Each morning, the kitchen filled with the smell of fresh pancakes and honey – the boy’s favourite treat. Steve stacked them neatly and set them before his stepson. – Dad made them thinner, – Max said after barely touching them. – And he bought real honey. Not this cheap stuff. Every caring gesture crashed against a wall of icy indifference. Max seemed to collect reasons for sarcasm, turning every detail into grounds for comparison. – Dad never shouted. – Dad always knew what I liked. – Dad did everything right. Olga and Steve’s wedding shattered the fragile truce. Max took the marriage certificate as betrayal – final and absolute. Home became a minefield: tense silence every morning, doors slammed every night. Max morphed into a secret agent, tracking every stepdad’s misstep like a detective. A harsh word at dinner – noted. An impatient sigh over homework – remembered. A tired “not now” after work – stashed with grievances. – Dad, he screamed at me again – Max whispered into his phone, locked in his bedroom. – Really? – Andrew on the other end clucked in exaggerated sympathy. – My poor boy. Remember when we went to the park every weekend? – I remember… – That was a real family. Not like this. Andrew painted their ordinary spats as dramas, crafting an idealised past where the sun shone brighter, the grass was greener, and Dad never made mistakes. Steve felt like an unwanted guest in his own home. Every glance from Max shouted: you don’t belong. You’re taking someone else’s place. You’ll never be family. The pressure built, heavier each day, until it all snapped at dinner. – You have no right to tell me what to do! – Max exploded when Steve asked him to put his phone away. – You’re nothing to me! NOTHING! Olga froze with her fork in mid-air. Something inside her cracked. The hatred Max shot at Steve made the air thick. – Dad’s better than you at everything. And you… you just… Dad says you ruin everything! I’d be better off with him! – Enough, – Olga said quietly. – That’s enough. The next morning, she dialled her ex-husband, hands trembling but resolute. – Andrew, – her voice level, – since you say you’re the better parent, take Max. For good. I’ll pay maintenance if needed. The silence dragged on forever. – Well… see… right now… – Andrew stammered. – Work’s tough, business trips… Of course I’d love to, but… He hesitated, papers rustling on his end, coughing awkwardly. – And, well, Natasha… my girlfriend… she’s not ready for a kid in the flat. We just moved in together, you know… The pitiful excuses spilled from the same man who stoked their son’s discontent by phone each night, poisoning every spark of unrest. Now it was a one-bedroom flat. Renovations. Natasha’s not ready. – I understand, Andrew, – Olga said, calm. – Thanks for being honest. She hung up before he could respond. That evening Olga called Max into the lounge. He slumped into the armchair, face set in defiance, but something in his mum’s expression made him fall silent. – I spoke to your father today. Max leaned forward, tense. – And what did he say? Olga sat down opposite. – He’s not willing to take you. Not now, not ever. He’s got a new life, a new woman, and you’re not part of it. – You’re lying! You always lie! – Max flared. – Dad loves me! He said so… – Saying it’s easy. – Olga’s voice was quiet but firm. – But when I asked him to take you, he remembered his renovation and one-bedroom flat. Max opened his mouth but had nothing to say. – Listen carefully, – Olga said, leaning in. – No more comparisons. No more spy-games and reporting to Dad, no more rudeness to Steve. Either we’re a family – all three of us – or you go to Dad, who doesn’t want you. I’ll make him take you in, and you’ll see for yourself what he’s really like. Max sat frozen, wide-eyed. – Mum… – I’m not joking. – Olga stared at her son, not smiling. – I love you more than life, but I won’t let you destroy my marriage. You’re being awful. I’ve put up with it long enough. That’s it. Your choice. Max was stunned. The world – Dad the hero vs. stepdad the villain – splintered and shattered. Dad doesn’t want him. Dad chose Natasha and a renovation. Dad just… used him to hurt Mum? Understanding came slowly. All those evening calls, clucking sympathy, “what did he do now?” – not caring, but a weapon. Andrew stockpiled ammo for his petty revenge, and Max dutifully supplied it. The boy swallowed hard. And Steve? The same Steve he tormented for months? Who patiently fixed his bike while Max ignored the garage? Who woke early every morning for pancakes? Who didn’t leave, didn’t give up, didn’t stop trying – no matter what… …Change was hard. For weeks, Max hid in his room, avoided Steve’s eyes. He was too ashamed to admit how childish he’d been. Every time he saw his stepdad, he remembered “you’re nothing to me” and wished the floor would swallow him whole. Everyone walked on eggshells, spoke gently, in vague phrases. The house felt like intensive care, teetering between survival and disaster. The breakthrough came with a physics assignment. Max chewed his pencil for two hours, then finally admitted defeat. – Steve… – the name was hard to say, catching in his throat. – Can you help? Bit of a nightmare with these vectors. Steve looked up calmly, no surprise, no triumph – just acceptance. – Let’s take a look. A month later, they went fishing together. They sat on the bank, watching the bobbers, and Max started talking – about school, his mates, the girl in another year he liked. No bitterness, no comparisons. Just a chat. Steve listened, nodded, chimed in here and there. Max realised: this is a real family. Not grand declarations, or sugar-coated memories. It’s found in quiet breakfasts, patience, the determination to stay beside you even when the world’s against you. The boy had made his choice. The right choice…