Return After Two Decades: Demanding “Family Support”

He came back after twenty years demanding “family help”

When someone leaves for good, you learn to live without them. You learn not to remember, not to analyze, not to hope. You fill that empty space with work, family, and responsibility. And then, years later, that person reappears in your life as if nothing ever happened. As if two decades of silence had never existed. As if you hadn’t been a little girl in an empty, ransacked apartment, clinging to your mother while he took everything—every last cent—rather than leave his daughter even a shred of dignity.

My father left when I was ten. He left in chaos: shouting, slammed doors, threats. He took everything, even the last lamp. Even my school desk—the one I shared with his mother, my grandmother. That day I learned what soul-tearing fear really felt like. It wasn’t just the loss of furniture. It was the theft of my childhood.

After the divorce, he vanished. No child support, no calls, not even a postcard. Gone. My mother got by the best she could. First with help from her parents, then on her own. I grew up, studied, got married. I had a daughter. My mother and I stayed close—she adores my husband and her granddaughter. Life felt stable. Until, out of nowhere, he came back.

I couldn’t believe it when he approached me outside my office on Gran Vía. He looked aged, dull-eyed, with a bulging belly. He opened his arms as if expecting a hug. I felt nauseous. I walked right past him without a word. He followed me, mumbling something about grabbing coffee, about how much he’d missed me. And for some reason, I said yes. Maybe just to understand what he really wanted.

At the café, he spun a tale: that my mother had forbidden him from seeing me, that he had suffered in silence. Even though, during that time, he had built another family—with three kids. He spoke of his “pain” like a bad actor on stage. He asked me about my life. The irony, after twenty years of complete absence.

I looked him in the eye and asked:
— What do you want?

His face fell.
— We’re family —he said, offended by my coldness.

I stood up, paid for my coffee, and left. He didn’t follow. Thank God. I thought it was over. But it wasn’t.

A week later, he was waiting for me again. He said he had given me time to “reflect” and now needed help: his eldest son—my “brother”—was going to study in Madrid and needed a place to stay temporarily.
— Rent prices are insane —he said.
— Blood is thicker than water —he added with a sly grin.

— This way you’ll get to know each other —he finished sweetly, like he was still “dad.”

I stared him down and made the “you’re crazy” gesture with my finger to my temple. Brother? Blood? He stopped being my family decades ago. I walked away without a word.

Soon, he started calling. I blocked every new number. In one message, he shouted:
— I’m your father, don’t ignore me!

Can you imagine? The man who never paid child support, now demanding respect. Pure hypocrisy.

I told my husband everything. He wanted to confront him, to speak of dignity and justice. But I stopped him. He’s not worth it. He made his choice. I made mine.

I won’t tell my mother. It would hurt her too much. I’ll deal with this on my own.

Life is full of injustices, but few are crueler than when the person who betrayed you demands to be treated as your equal. Let him complain, let him suffer, let him beg for sympathy. But not here.
I still remember my mother’s tears in that empty kitchen.
And that… that is something I will never forgive.