Returned After Twenty Years — Demanding “Family” Support
When someone leaves for good, you learn to live without them. You learn not to dwell, not to dissect the past, not to hope. You fill that void with work, family, obligations. Then, years later, that person reappears on your doorstep — as if nothing happened. As if two decades of silence never passed. As if you hadn’t once stood in an empty, stripped apartment, clinging to your mother, while he prioritized hauling away the television over leaving his daughter even a shred of dignity.
My father left when I was ten. He left loudly, messily, with shouting and slammed doors. He dragged out everything, down to the last chair. Even my desk vanished — taken by him and his mother, my grandmother. That’s when I first understood fear and desolation. It wasn’t just furniture disappearing; it felt like childhood itself had been ripped out by the roots.
After the divorce, he vanished. No child support, no calls, no letters. Just… gone. Mum scraped by. First with help from her parents, then on her own. I grew up, studied, married. Had a daughter. Mum and I stayed close; she adores my husband and dotes on her granddaughter. Life settled. Then, out of nowhere, my father returned.
I didn’t believe it was him when he cornered me outside my office. Aged, paunchy, eyes dull. He spread his arms like he expected an embrace. The gesture made my skin crawl. I walked past without a word. He trailed me, babbling about catching up over coffee, how he’d missed me. Against my better judgment, I agreed. I had to know: why now?
In the café, he spun tales. Claimed Mum had forbidden him from contacting me — he’d “respected her wishes,” yet somehow found time to remarry and raise three kids. His “suffering” was a pathetic act. When he asked how I was, I nearly laughed. A bold question after twenty years of radio silence.
I cut to the chase: “What do you want?” His face fell. “We’re family,” he insisted, offended by my coldness. I stood, paid the bill, and left. He didn’t follow — thank God. I hoped that was the end. It wasn’t.
A week later, he ambushed me again. Said he’d “given me time to reflect,” then dropped his request: his eldest son — my so-called “brother” — was starting at the University of Manchester. Could he stay with me temporarily while they sorted housing? Rent was steep, after all. “Family should stick together,” he added with a grin.
I stared at him, then tapped my temple. “What brother? What family? You’re a stranger.” I walked away.
Soon, he found my number. Calls. Texts. I blocked each new number. One message raged: “How dare you ignore me? I’m your father!” Imagine. The man who abandoned me, who didn’t pay a penny in child support, now wounded by my disrespect. The audacity.
I told my husband. He was livid, wanted to confront him. I stopped him. Not worth the energy. That man chose his path long ago. I chose mine.
I won’t tell Mum. It would gut her. She’s endured enough. I’ll handle this alone.
Life’s full of injustices, but few sting more than someone who betrayed you demanding kinship decades later. Let him sulk, let him play the victim. Not my concern. I remember too well sitting in that hollowed-out house, listening to Mum cry in the kitchen. Some wounds don’t heal. Some sins don’t fade.
