At eighteen, she was left alone with two children. And then the “father” appeared…
My parents married young—just sixteen. A pregnancy, fear of judgment, pressure from their elders—it all led to a rushed wedding. But a family never took root. He left almost immediately after my brother and I were born. Vanished. No child support, no letters, no calls. As if he’d evaporated.
Then, fifteen years later, he turned up on our doorstep. Unkempt but self-assured, as if nothing were amiss.
“I’ve realised I’m a father,” he said. “I want to mend things. And I’d like one of you to come live with me.”
Are you serious?
Fifteen years of silence. Not a birthday card, not a single “how are you?” And now, here he was, with this enlightened look, ready to split us like furniture.
When I was five, Mum remarried. My brother and I started calling our stepfather “Dad.” He cared for us—took us to school, read bedtime stories, stood by us through hard times and happy ones. He was there. To us, he was our real father. The other man was just a name on a birth certificate.
Yet Mum, however hurt she was, never stopped us from seeing our biological father.
“Here he is. He’s your blood. Decide for yourselves,” she said.
We didn’t even entertain the idea. Just turned and walked away.
But he wouldn’t let it go. He went to court, tried to take custody of my brother. Can you imagine? A man who never paid a penny in child support, who vanished from our lives, suddenly playing the doting parent?
The court refused. Mum counter-sued. His parental rights were stripped.
Still, he sought revenge—writing false reports, filing complaints. Inspectors kept turning up at our door, baffled. The claims were baseless. When they checked on him? A filthy flat, drunken mates, bottles strewn everywhere.
And this was the man who wanted custody?
Years passed. I married, had two children. My brother… stumbled. I won’t go into details, but he ended up in prison. Mum and I did what we could.
Then came another court summons.
My father was suing—demanding I support him. Bedridden now, ravaged by delirium tremens and tuberculosis, living in a crumbling house. His flat? Long since drunk away.
He expected me—his daughter, the one he abandoned—to take him in, into a home with my young children, and care for him.
Me?
Thank God Mum had him stripped of his rights. The court denied his claim. But the bitterness lingered. You know what stung most? People judged me. “He’s your father,” they said. “However he failed, you should help. Don’t abandon him.”
Didn’t he abandon us?
I remember Mum feeding us plain pasta because we couldn’t afford butter. My stepdad took extra shifts so we’d have winter boots. And this man? A drunk who only remembered us when he hit rock bottom.
He wept in court.
“I was a fool… didn’t know how much family mattered…”
But was that my fault?
Family isn’t built on tears and guilt. It’s built on actions, care, love. My stepfather gave me that. He’s my real dad. For him, I’d give everything. For him, I’d stand firm.
But to this man? I owe nothing. And I won’t pretend otherwise.
Men who abandon their children, who trade family for a bottle or some fleeting thrill—ask yourselves: will they come to you when you’re helpless? Or will they turn away, just as you did?
