**Diary Entry – 25th April, 1995**
Dad left when he found out about Mum’s affair with a colleague. The house erupted into a vicious row.
*”Well, what did you expect? I’ve been on my own night and day! You’re always at that bloody job. I’m a woman—I need attention!”*
*”Oh, is that right?”* Dad’s voice was icy. *”What if I make sure your precious Simon gets locked up, eh? Plant something on him—would you like that?”* He was a detective sergeant—he could’ve done it, too.
*”You wouldn’t dare!”* Mum screamed. *”You wouldn’t! You ruined everything yourself!”*
She collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing. Dad finished shoving his few belongings into a duffel bag and headed for the door. I stood in the hallway, blocking the way to the lounge, ready to throw myself at his feet if it meant stopping him. Stupid, wasn’t it? We’d always been close—a proper family. Mum and Dad never fought, told the same stupid jokes, laughed together. Sure, Dad worked long hours, came home exhausted, desperate for sleep. But the time we *did* have together? It was good. How could Mum wreck it all? And why couldn’t Dad just forgive her?
*”James,”* Mum sniffed, wiping her face. *”Don’t go. Please. I’m sorry! Tommy, stop gawking—do something!”*
But I didn’t move. Twelve years old, blocking the doorway like a brick wall, convinced I could stop our lives from crumbling.
*”Tom,”* Dad said, dead serious—the same tone he used at work. Never at home. Never with us.
*”Don’t leave.”*
*”Move.”*
Cold. Final.
*”Dad… what about me?”*
He shoved me aside like a piece of furniture and walked out. I think he left *because* he was furious—not just to stop himself from hitting her, but because he had his service weapon. His eyes burned with rage. Now, I understand. Back then? He was just the man who pushed me away like a chair. Mum was the one who’d shattered us.
Simon, of course, turned out to be a right git and dumped Mum straight after. She was left with nothing—husband gone, lover vanished, son blaming her. And me? I made it worse.
I started staying out late, fell in with a rough lot. Petty theft at first, then bolder stuff. Got caught trying to rob some posh kid—not all of us, just me and Danny. Dad, by then a chief inspector, turned up at the station. Our surname—Hargreaves—wasn’t common, and the middle name (Jameson, not William) must’ve tipped someone off.
*”Get out here,”* Dad snapped.
*”Sod off,”* I muttered.
He dragged me from the cell.
*”What about Danny?”* I yelled, thrashing.
Dad hauled me into an interrogation room and smacked me twice—hard. Wiping blood and tears, I hated him more than ever.
*”How old are you?”*
*”What?”*
*”Fifteen? Sixteen?”*
I nearly laughed.
*”Brilliant! You don’t even know your own son’s age!”*
*”Because you’re *not* mine!”* he roared. *”I married Claire knowing she was pregnant. Thought she’d be a good wife. But she’s still just a—”* He swore brutally.
*”Who *is* my dad, then?”* I asked dumbly.
He tossed me a handkerchief and a water bottle. Once I’d cleaned up, Dad sat opposite me. *”Sorry I hit you. You disappointed me. Think I don’t have enough on my plate?”*
*”Then piss off and deal with it,”* I grumbled.
*”Tom… legally, you’re mine. I pay child support. But if you keep this up? I’ll wash my hands of you. Let them lock you up—see if I care.”*
*”And now?”*
*”What now?”*
*”Will they lock me up now?”*
He shook his head.
*”What about Danny?”*
*”Danny’s got his own dad. Wealthy family. They’ll sort it. Worry about *yourself*. Think prison’s a laugh, do you? It’s hell. Juvenile wing? Hell squared.”*
I didn’t want prison. I was just… miserable. Couldn’t stand looking at Mum. So I distracted myself. Told Dad as much.
*”Choice is yours. Get your act together—school, future. Or keep spiralling. That road ends badly. Don’t fancy jail? Change.”* He stood. *”Piss off home.”*
I turned to leave. At the door, his voice stopped me.
*”And don’t blame your mum. Divorce is never one-sided. What I said earlier? Heat of the moment. Forget it.”*
*”James… Dad, you *loved* her. Can’t you fix it?”* I asked, hopeless.
*”Forget that too, son.”*
The lads weren’t happy when I ditched them. Took a few punches, wore the bruises. Danny got off with probation and went back to his old ways. I made my choice.
Forgave Mum. Tried hard. Thought about asking who my real father was—never did. Too busy catching up at school. I fixed my grades, applied to a few police colleges.
*”You’re *mad*!”* Mum cried. *”It’s no way to live! Remember your father!”*
I *did* remember him. We just… never saw each other. No hard feelings, unspoken.
Graduated as a lieutenant, showed up at his station unannounced. Wanted nothing from him—just to prove I’d chosen right.
Dad was still chief inspector. No higher. Maybe he liked it that way. I knocked on his office door.
*”Sir. Lieutenant Hargreaves. Permission to enter?”*
*”Tommy?”* He gaped.
So Mum *had* kept her word. Never told him.
*”Bloody hell, son. At ease. Sit. Talk.”*
He poured tea, offered whisky (I refused). We talked an hour. He took work calls now and then. His temples were grey, face lined. This stranger—still my dad—watched me with wet eyes, swiping them quick. Odd. Why?
I told him my plans. We discussed footy, politics. Time to go.
*”Right, Dad. Better head off.”* I stood.
*”Wait. Where you going? Don’t.”* He rose. *”Transfer here. Work under me.”*
I hesitated. Did I want that? Maybe. Maybe I’d missed him ten bloody years. I sat back down.
*”Not leaving?”* he asked.
*”Not yet. Plenty of time for that.”*
