Father left because he found out about Mum’s affair with a colleague. A terrible row broke out at home.
“What did you expect? I’m always alone—day after day! You’re off at work morning till night. I’m a woman, I need attention!”
“And what’ll you say if I lock up your devoted Robert, eh? Plant something on him, shut him away, how about that?” Dad hissed, cold fury in his voice. He was a detective inspector at the Met.
“You wouldn’t dare! You wouldn’t! You ruined everything yourself!”
Mum sank onto the sofa, weeping. Dad had already packed his few belongings and was heading for the door. I stood in the hallway, blocking the way to the living room, ready to throw myself in his path. What nonsense was this? We’d always been a close, happy family. Mum and Dad never fought—they shared the same jokes, laughed at the same things. True, Dad worked long hours, often coming home dead tired, wanting only to sleep. But the times we were together as a family proved things were good between them. How could Mum go and wreck it all? And why wouldn’t Dad just forgive her?
“James, don’t go,” Mum pleaded, lifting her hands from her face. “Forgive me! Stay. Tommy, stop eavesdropping!”
But I didn’t move. I planted myself in the doorway. At twelve, I thought I could stop them from tearing apart what I believed was a happy home.
“Tom, move,” Dad ordered, his tone deadly serious—the voice he used on duty, not at home, not with us.
“Don’t go,” I begged.
“Let me pass!”
Same cold inflection.
“Dad… what about me?”
He shoved me aside like a piece of furniture and left. Now, I understand—he hurried away before he did something reckless. Not just to stop himself from hitting Mum in rage, but because he carried his service revolver. His eyes burned with such fury it was right he walked out. But that day, he became the man who pushed me aside like a chair. And Mum became the one who made our lives a nightmare.
Robert, predictably, turned out to be a cad and left Mum soon after. She was left in a wretched state—husband gone, lover fled, son blaming her for it all. It wasn’t easy for her, and then there was me…
I started staying out late, falling in with a rough crowd. Petty theft at first, then bolder crimes. We got caught robbing some rich bloke—not all of us. His security grabbed two, me and Alfie. Dad, by then a chief inspector, turned up at the station where I was held. Our surname—Wren—was uncommon, as was my middle name, Jameson, not Peters. Someone recognised him and called.
“Get out,” Dad barked.
“Bugger off,” I muttered through gritted teeth.
He dragged me from the cell.
“What about Alfie?” I shrieked, struggling wildly.
Dad hauled me into an interview room and punched me hard, twice. Wiping blood and tears from my face, my hatred for him sharpened.
“How old are you now?”
“What?” I spat.
“How many years? Fifteen?”
I nearly laughed.
“Congratulations! You don’t even know your son’s age!”
“Because you’re not mine!” he roared. “I married your mum when she was already expecting. Thought she’d be a good wife. But she stayed just what she was—” he cursed crudely—”all along.”
“Then who is?” I asked dully.
He tossed me a handkerchief and a water bottle. I wiped my face. James sat opposite and said, “Sorry I hit you. You’ve upset me badly. Think I don’t have enough on my plate?”
“Then go deal with it,” I muttered.
“Tom… on paper, you’re mine. I’ve paid your mum’s maintenance, every penny. But if this keeps up—I’ll wash my hands of you. Let them lock you up—what’s it to me, eh?”
“What now, then?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Will they… lock me up?”
He shook his head.
“What about Alfie?”
“Listen, Alfie’s got his own old man. His family’s loaded. They’ll sort it. You worry about yourself. Why’s prison so bloody appealing? Think it’s a holiday camp? It’s hell. Juvenile wing—hell cubed.”
I didn’t fancy prison. I was just miserably adrift, couldn’t bear looking at Mum. So I… distracted myself. I told Dad as much.
“Point is, no one chooses for you. Either start living right—school, future—or keep sliding. That road’s got one end, and it’s bad. Don’t fancy jail? Change your ways. Go on.”
I turned to leave. His voice stopped me.
“And don’t blame your mum. Divorce is always two-sided. What I said about her—heat of the moment. Forget it.”
“James… Dad, you love each other! Can’t you make up?” I asked, hopeless.
“Forget that too, son.”
The lads from my crew didn’t want to let me go. A few fistfights left me bruised, but I broke free. Alfie’s dad got him probation, and he went back to his old ways. I chose differently.
Forgave Mum. Tried hard to. Thought about asking who my real father was—but never did. Too busy catching up in school, drowning in overdue work.
I got my grades up and applied to several police colleges.
“You mad?” Mum protested. “That’s no life! Remember your father! It’s no life.”
I often thought of Dad. But we never met. No bitterness, just silence. After graduating as a lieutenant, I turned up unannounced. Wanted nothing from him—just to show I’d chosen right. I hadn’t gone crooked.
Dad was still chief of the ops division. Never climbed higher. Guess he was content. I entered his office.
“Sir.” I saluted. “Lieutenant Wren. Permission to speak?”
“Tommy?” He gaped.
So Mum had kept her word. Never told him.
“Bloody hell, son. At ease. Sit, talk.”
He poured tea. Offered brandy—I declined. We talked for an hour. He took work calls now and then. His temples had greyed, his face lined. This stranger—yet somehow still my father—sat opposite, eyes glistening. Wiped them away. What got to him?
I shared my progress, plans. Discussed football and politics. Time to leave.
“Right, Dad, I’d better go.” I stood.
“Wait. Where you off to? Don’t go.” James rose. “Join my team, eh?”
I hesitated. Did I want to work under him? Maybe. Maybe I’d missed him these ten years. Ten bloody years. I sat back down.
“Not leaving?” he asked.
“Not now. I’ve got time to walk away later.”
