“So, is he going to live with us now?” he asked his wife, glancing at their son…

Author Walton MerrittReading 5 minViews 2

And is he living with us now, then? asked Nigel, casting a sceptical look at his wife while eyeing their son…

Betty Thompson came home, nearly dropping her handbag in surprise when she saw her son. Max had been living with his wife for nearly two years now, popping by no more than a couple of times a month and only on Sundays, usually after shed had the good biscuits out. But it was a Wednesday. Unheard of.

Is something wrong? she asked, not bothering with hellos.

Arent you pleased to see me? Max tried to joke, but one stern look from his mum told him this was no time for comedy. Ive left Jessica.

What do you mean, left? Her voice was about as soft as a garden gnome. Betty wasnt great with jokes generally, and working for years in a young offenders prison had done nothing for her patience.

Um we had a row, Max mumbled, doing his best impression of a kicked puppy.

And? She drilled him with her signature dont mess with me eyes. Are you going to run back to Mummy every time you argue with your wife?

Were getting divorced! Max blurted, as if the words alone would grant him immediate sympathy.

Betty just stared, clearly wanting a proper explanation. With a sigh, Max said: She tried to dump more housework on me. I come home knackered from the office, and she wants me to hoover and do dinner.

So what, did you break your leg? Is helping your wife physically impossible? Betty was not in the mood for drama.

She said the same thing. I told her a womans supposed to keep the home. Thats her job.

Where on earth did you pick up that codswallop? Betty was now losing patience at a record pace.

She only wanted a shower, a cup of tea, and a peaceful evening with her husband. Instead, she had Max, dripping melodrama with a helping of medieval patriarchy. Shed lived with Nigel all her life, worked side by side, split chores, raised kids, and never once had a debate about whose turn it is. Suddenly, her son seemed to fancy himself Henry VIII.

Im asking you! she barked so loud that Max, had he not been a grown man, might have wet himself. Whered you dig that up? Dividing chores like its the Stone Age! What, are you tired from hunting mammoths? You both work. Youre both breadwinners. So you both muck in at home. Or did you suggest she quit her job and just stay home baking cakes? No? Then quit moaning. Have you ever seen me and your dad fight over who scrubs the loo? No. Because we have enough sense to pull together. Thats why.

Just then, Nigel strolled in from work, spotted Max and raised an eyebrow: Something up?

They even ask identical questions, Max thought, before saying aloud, Me and Jess are getting a divorce.

Well, youre an idiot, was Nigels brief reply, dumping his grocery bags in the kitchen.

Nigel, our sons being a muppet, Betty declared, filling him in on the saga.

So, is he moving in, then? Nigel said to Betty, then addressed Max: You know the word spouse comes from ‘team mate’, right? A team mate shares the workload with their life partner. If one starts skiving off, the other has to carry the load for two. Thats how families break down either someone keels over, or the whole thing falls to bits.

Max began to ponder this, but his annoyance with Jess held fast. Really, hed hoped for a shoulder to cry on, not a group lecture. His parents had moved on from discussing him and were now busy unloading the shopping, making it clear they werent about to start mothering a grown man. They made it obvious Max was an unnecessary guest, and not exactly rolling out the red carpet.

Max watched the well-oiled Thompson family routine, slightly baffled by how two serious people managed to treat each other like bunnies in a meadow at home.

So what are you standing there for? Go and make up with your wife! Nigel ordered. And get that daft idea out of your head about who does what. Youre supposed to look out for each other, help each other its that simple! Go on, off you pop, weve got our own evening to get on with.

Max left their house feeling thoroughly deflated; not at all the reception hed expected. But he realised, as his annoyance with Jess faded, that hed made a right mess over nothing. And most importantly, he finally understood that he wanted a family just like his parents: equal, happyand perhaps, if he was lucky, occasionally full of biscuits.

Dad’s Better Than Anyone – A British Family Drama of Divorce, Rivalry and a Teenager’s Hard Lesson in Love “Max, we need to talk.” Olga nervously straightened the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary creases, trying to hide her anxiety behind a calm voice. Max, hunched over his phone opposite, tapped the screen with dramatic focus – his favourite method of ignoring. “Son… I need to explain something important to you.” No reaction, just the soft clicks of a mobile. Olga took a deep breath, gathering courage for words she’d delayed for a week. “When your dad and I split up… it was half a year before I introduced you to Richard. I didn’t rush. I wanted to be sure it was serious.” Max’s fingers froze above the screen. The teenager lifted his head, eyes flickering with outrage, so intense that Olga instinctively recoiled. “Serious? That bloke means nothing compared to Dad! He couldn’t even hold a candle. Dad’s better than him at everything!” Memories of that first meeting struck Max with painful clarity—a tall stranger in their hall, mum’s anxious smile, the whiff of strange cologne. An intruder, unforgivably filling Dad’s place. “He isn’t a stranger,” Olga replied softly. “He’s my husband.” “Yours!” Max flung his phone onto the table. “Means nothing to me! My dad is Dad. This guy…” He didn’t finish, but contempt did his talking. Richard had tried, lord, how he tried. Evenings spent in the garage fixing Max’s bent bike, hands stained with engine grease, a determined smile against every setback. “Look, got the frame straightened,” he’d say, wiping his hands. “You can take it out tomorrow?” Silence met every gesture – icy, reverberating silence. Every evening Richard sat by Max’s desk, breaking down equations in plain words. “If you move X here—” “I get it,” Max would cut him off, even when it was clear he didn’t. Mornings brought the smell of freshly made pancakes and honey—Max’s favourite. Richard stacked them high on his plate. “Dad made them thinner,” Max would mutter, barely touching his food. “And Dad’s honey was proper. This is rubbish.” Every act of care crashed against a wall of cold indifference. Max seemed to collect ammunition for sarcastic comparisons. “Dad never shouted.” “Dad always knew what I liked.” “Dad did everything right.” Olga and Richard’s wedding shredded the fragile truce. Max took the marriage certificate as betrayal – final and irrevocable. The house became a minefield, mornings chilled by silence, nights ending in slammed doors. Max transformed into a secret agent, tracking every misstep by his stepdad like a detective. A sharp word over dinner – recorded. A sigh over homework – memorised. A tired “not now” after work – banked as grievance. “Dad, he had a go at me again,” Max would whisper in his bedroom. “Really?” Dad tutted, faking sympathy. “Poor lad. Remember those trips to the park? Every weekend, yeah?” “Yeah…” “That’s what a proper family was. Not this.” His dad painted a picture: perfect past, easy happiness, Dad flawless. Richard, meanwhile, felt like an unwelcome guest. Every look from Max screamed: you don’t belong. You’ll never be my family. The pressure built to breaking point. One evening, disaster struck. “You’ve no right to boss me about!” Max exploded when Richard asked for phones off at dinner. “You mean nothing to me!” Olga froze. Something inside her snapped. Max’s glare was venomous. “My dad is better in every way. He says you ruin everything. Life was better before you!” “Enough,” Olga said quietly. “That’s enough.” The next morning, she dialled her ex-husband’s number. Hands shaking, but her resolve steel. “Tom,” she began evenly, “if you think you’re the better parent, take Max. Permanently. I’ll pay maintenance if need be.” The silence dragged. “Well… the timing’s awkward…” Tom fumbled. “Work’s busy, loads of travel… I’d love to, but…” He shuffled papers, coughed awkwardly. “And, well, Jane—my girlfriend—she’s not ready for a kid yet. We’ve just moved in, trying to settle…” Weak excuses. Tom, who’d encouraged Max to attack Olga’s new family. Who fed him bitter words, stoked every little grievance. Now—just a cramped flat, some DIY and a girlfriend who’d rather not. “I understand, Tom,” Olga said, voice flat. “Thanks for your honesty.” She ended the call. That evening, she called Max to the living room. He slumped into a chair, defiant, but something in Mum’s gaze made him wary. “I spoke to your dad today.” Max tensed. “And what did he say?” Olga sat across from him. “He won’t take you. Not now, not ever. He’s got a new life, a new woman, and there’s no room for you.” “That’s a lie! He loves me! He told me—” “It’s easy to say things,” Olga replied softly. “But when I offered, he remembered his ‘repair work’ and his little flat.” Max’s mouth opened but he couldn’t contradict. “Now listen,” Olga leaned in. “No more comparisons with Dad. No more spying, no disrespect to Richard. Either we’re a family—us three—or you go live with your dad, who doesn’t want the job. I’ll make him take you. Then you’ll see for yourself what he’s really like.” Max sat motionless, eyes wide. “Mum…” “I’m not joking.” Olga didn’t flinch. “I love you more than anything. But I won’t let you destroy my marriage. Your behaviour is unacceptable. I’ve had enough. It’s your choice.” Max froze, his world in pieces. Kindly Dad vs ‘bad’ stepdad wasn’t so simple anymore. Dad wouldn’t take him back. He’d chosen his girlfriend and decorating. Had he used Max only to spite Mum? Painful understanding dawned. All those calls, all the questions—just ammunition. Tom gathering fuel for his own vendetta, Max unwittingly supplying it. He swallowed hard. And Richard? The man he’d mistreated for months? Patiently fixing his bike as Max ignored him. Baking pancakes every morning. Staying, trying, never quitting… Change wasn’t easy. Weeks passed with Max hiding in his room, ashamed to admit he’d acted like a child. Seeing Richard reminded him of: “You mean nothing to me.” He wanted to disappear. Everyone tread softly, speaking in cautious phrases. The house felt like an intensive care ward, teetering between hope and collapse. First step: a physics problem. Max struggled for two hours, chewed his pencil, finally found the nerve. “Richard…” The word was hard, stuck in his throat. “Can you help? It’s the vectors.” Richard glanced up from his laptop. No surprise or victory, just quiet acceptance. “Let’s have a look.” A month later, they went fishing together. Sitting by the lake, watching the bobbers, Max chatted about school, mates, a girl he fancied. No accusations, no comparisons – just a real conversation. Richard listened, nodded, occasionally added his thoughts. Max realised: this was real family. Not dreamy words or rose-tinted memories, but quiet breakfasts, patience, and sticking around when everyone else gave up. This time, Max chose right…