**The Repentant Return: How Betrayal Led to Defeat**
I sat sprawled on the sofa, eyes fixed on another episode of my favourite show, when Father walked in. His voice left no room for hesitation.
“Son, we need to talk.”
“Go on, then,” I muttered, barely glancing away from the screen.
“Your wife came to see me. Says you’ve been acting oddly lately. Anything wrong?”
“It’s fine,” I brushed him off.
“Fine?” Father silently picked up the tablet from the table, opened a photo, and turned it toward me. I looked—and froze.
Once, Father and Mum had been the picture of love—building a business together, moving through life side by side—but it wasn’t until they were thirty-eight that their long-awaited son arrived. Me. Doted on, indulged, raised without discipline. Spoiled, selfish, lazy—that’s what I became.
After barely scraping through university—thanks to their money—I declared I was exhausted. No desire to work, reasoning that “there’s enough money as it is.”
Father insisted I stand on my own feet, but Mum always defended me.
“Let him rest. There’ll be plenty of time for struggle.”
Father merely shrugged, knowing the truth—I was useless.
I lived aimlessly. Parties, trips abroad, a parade of women. Crashed the expensive car they’d gifted me—walked away unscathed, but Mum collapsed from shock and died a year later. With her went the last restraint in my life. I emptied her accounts without shame.
Then I brought home Veronica—flashy, reckless, trouble. Father saw it immediately.
“Emily’s the one for you. Clever, steady, devoted. She’s loved you since we were kids.”
“Emily’s dull,” I shot back. “Veronica’s fun.”
But the fun ended quickly. A rowdy party left the house wrecked, the housekeeper in tears, Father furious.
“Either you pull yourself together, or get out.”
I smirked.
“Can’t I have guests in my own home?”
“It’s *my* home,” Father said evenly. “You own the flat. Go there—party all you like.”
I left—but kept draining Mum’s accounts. Veronica, as it turned out, wasn’t with me for love. Within a couple of years, we were broke, forced to sell the flat to clear debts. Then Veronica vanished with another man, leaving me with a baby in my arms.
So I came crawling back—haggard, humiliated, clutching six-month-old Daniel.
“Nowhere else to go,” I whispered.
Father took me in. But he laid down three rules: clean myself up, get a job, and marry… Emily.
And Emily agreed. All those years, she’d never stopped loving me. Took to Daniel as her own. The DNA test confirmed it—he *was* Father’s grandson.
Three peaceful years followed. I seemed changed. Worked, didn’t stray, focused on my family. Then—odd behaviour. Late nights, mood swings. Father hired security to uncover the truth. The photos arrived: me meeting Veronica.
“Why?” Father demanded, slamming the tablet down.
“She’s Daniel’s mother.”
“She’s poison. Stay away. And keep her from this house. I’ll see her rights stripped bare.”
A week later, I vanished. Last seen climbing into Veronica’s car.
Father never recovered from the betrayal. Emily and Daniel stayed by his side till the end.
Then—four months later—I reappeared. Tanned, smug, Veronica on my arm.
“Hello,” I smirked at Emily. “You haven’t changed. We’re here about the inheritance.”
“Don’t bother. It’s settled,” Emily replied. “Daniel, upstairs please. Your father and I need to talk.”
The boy obeyed. Then Emily, perfectly calm, said:
“Everything belongs to me and Daniel. Legally, I’m his mother now.”
“What?” Veronica and I gaped.
“Papers are signed. Your rights are void. You get nothing.”
“We’re his parents!” Veronica shrieked.
“No,” Daniel said softly from the stairs. “Parents stay. Emily’s my mum. You’re nobody.”
Security saw us out in silence. I finally understood—I’d lost. Like always.
**Lesson learned too late:** Some wounds don’t heal. Some mistakes can’t be undone. And trust, once broken, stays that way.
