Sometimes it feels like my mum doesn’t have a heart—just an endless well of patience. Five years ago, my father treated her so poorly I still can’t talk about it without seeing red. And her? She just smiles serenely and says, *”What’s done is done. He came back, said sorry, asked for forgiveness… Wants to move back in, give it another go.”*
My brother and I? Absolutely not. Because we remember everything. And forgetting something like that would be like betraying ourselves. They’d been together nearly forty years—started out in a tiny flat, scraping by, and worked their way up to a lovely countryside house. First a shoebox of a room, then a two-bed, then three, and finally a posh four-bedder in Surrey. Dad loved the good life—new luxury cars every other year, renovations *”just like the Joneses,”* the fanciest appliances.
Oh, and he *loved* his secretary—quite literally, given how often he was caught sneaking glances under her skirt. Then one day, she dropped the bombshell: *”I’m pregnant, too late for an abortion.”* And Dad, ever the romantic, declared, *”I’m smitten—time to start a new family!”* If he’d just packed his bags and left, fine. But no. He went full estate agent, dividing everything like we were strangers. Kept muttering, *”Better make sure I don’t shortchange myself.”*
I was already married, living separately, but my brother was still at home with Mum. Dad had promised him a flat for his wedding—*promised.* But after the big blow-up? Just empty words. No flat. He took the house, the garage, the BMW, even cleared out half the furniture, citing *”ownership rights.”* Left Mum locked out of their joint account, chirping, *”The new family needs the money more.”*
For months after, Dad swung by like clockwork—*”Just popping in for my favourite whisky glasses!”*—until my brother changed the locks. We ended up downsizing so my brother could have his own place with his wife. Dad wasn’t invited to the wedding. He didn’t push it. Money got tight for a while, but we managed.
Mum went back to her old job—turns out, companies still jump at the chance to hire a seasoned accountant. My brother and I buckled down, and slowly, things stabilised. Dad? Not so much. His health went downhill, and the young wife he’d trusted so dearly chucked him out. This time, he didn’t even haggle—just handed her the house, kept the Jag, and moved into a budget hotel.
Then the calls started. *”I was a fool… Let’s make things right…”* And guess what? Mum *listened.* She sat us down and said, *”Your dad wants to make amends… Shouldn’t we give him another chance?”*
My brother and I nearly choked. We said, flat out: *If you take him back, we won’t step foot in this house again.* We love her. We’ll always be there for her. But forgiving a traitor isn’t forgiveness—it’s disrespect.
And we’re done calling him *”Dad.”* Because someone who ditches his family for a pipe dream doesn’t get to reclaim the title.
