Sometimes it seems my mother doesn’t have a heart but an endless ocean of patience. Five years ago, my father treated her so despicably that I still can’t speak of it without my blood boiling. And her? She just smiles calmly and says, “What’s done is done. He came back, full of regret, begging forgiveness… Wants to return, to live together again…”
But my brother and I? We refuse. Because we remember everything. To forget would be to betray ourselves. They were together nearly forty years—from a cramped dorm room to a grand countryside home in Surrey. First a shoebox flat, then a two-bedder, three-bedder, until finally, a lavish four-bedroom house. Father loved the finer things. A new Mercedes every other year, renovations “like proper folks,” top-end appliances.
And then there was his secretary. Quite literally—his eyes wandered, and so did his hands. One day, she announced she was pregnant. Too late for any “fixes.” So Father declared, “I’m in love, off to start anew!” Had he just packed and left, it might’ve been simpler. But no. He began carving up their life like we were strangers. “Am I short-changing myself?” he’d mutter.
I was already married by then, living separately with my husband. But my brother stayed with Mum. He was promised a flat for his wedding—Father had sworn it. After the fallout? Just empty words. No flat. Father kept the house, the garage, the car, even stripped the place of anything he called “his.” Locked Mum out of their joint account, claiming his “new family” needed the money more.
For months afterward, he’d drop by like clockwork—collecting his favourite bar stool one day, a set of whisky tumblers the next. Only when my brother changed the locks did it stop. We decided to downsize, to free up a place for him and his wife. Father wasn’t invited to the wedding. He didn’t press. After his grand exit, money got tight, but we made do.
Mum went back to her old job—a seasoned accountant welcomed with open arms. My brother and I pitched in, and slowly, things stabilised. Father? Not so lucky. His health faltered. The young wife he’d trusted so dearly tossed him out. This time, no grand division—just the car and a dingy hotel room.
And then… the calls started. Weepy pleas to Mum: “Forgive me, I was a fool… Let’s turn back time…” And guess what? She listened! Came to us saying, “Your dad wants to make amends… Shouldn’t we give him a chance?”
My brother and I nearly choked. We said it plain: if you take him back, we won’t step foot in that house again. We love you, we’ll always stand by you—but forgiving a traitor isn’t mercy, it’s self-betrayal.
And we won’t call him “Dad” anymore. Because a man who abandons his family for a phantom of happiness has no right to the name.
