Sometimes I think my mum doesn’t have a heart—just an endless ocean of patience. Five years ago, my dad did something so rotten I still can’t talk about it without my blood boiling. And her? She just smiles and says, “What’s done is done. He came back, he’s sorry, he asked for forgiveness… He wants to come home, to be a family again…”
But me and my brother? Absolutely not. Because we remember everything. And forgetting something like that would be like betraying yourself. They were together nearly forty years. Went from a cramped student flat to a big country house in Surrey. Started with a shoebox of a room, then a two-bed, then a three, and finally a posh four-bed—and later, that gorgeous place just outside London. Dad loved the high life. Brand-new cars every couple of years, renovations “like proper folks have,” top-notch appliances.
And he loved his secretary too. Literally—couldn’t keep his hands to himself. Then one day, she tells him she’s pregnant. Too late to do anything about it. So Dad decides, “I’m in love, gonna start fresh!” If he’d just packed up and left, fine. But no. He started haggling over every last bit of the house like we were strangers. Kept asking himself, “Did I short-change myself?”
I was already married by then, living with my husband. But my brother stayed with Mum. He was supposed to get a flat for his wedding—Dad promised. After the drama? Just empty words. No flat. Dad took the house, the garage, the car, even cleared out anything he thought was “his” from the flat. Left Mum without access to their savings, said the money was for his “new” family now.
For months after, Dad kept dropping by like it was part of his routine—one day for his favourite stool, the next for a set of whisky glasses. Only when my brother changed the locks did it stop. Then we decided to downsize the flat so my brother and his wife could have their own place. Dad wasn’t invited to the wedding—didn’t push it either. After he left, money got tight, but we made it work.
Mum went back to her old job—they welcomed her with open arms, a seasoned accountant like her. Me and my brother stepped up too, and bit by bit, things smoothed out. Dad? Not so much. His health took a hit, and that young wife he trusted so much kicked him out. This time, he didn’t even fight for the house—just took the car and moved into a hotel.
And then… The calls to Mum started. All weepy: “I was a fool… Let’s fix this…” And guess what? She listened! Came to me and my brother saying, “Your dad wants to make things right… Maybe we give him a chance?”
We were speechless. Told her flat-out: if she took him back, we wouldn’t set foot in that house again. We love her, we’ll always be there for her, but letting a traitor back in? That’s not forgiveness—it’s disrespecting yourself.
And we don’t call him “Dad” anymore. Because the man who walked out on his family for some fleeting fantasy doesn’t deserve the name.
