THE SON I NEVER KNEW I HAD — PART 2
A few days had passed since the loan sharks left our front door.
Victor was still sleeping on our sofa, and my dad was still pretending his head did not hurt.
I kept thinking about the £10,000 my dad had handed over in the dark.
I kept thinking about Milo asleep upstairs, and about all the questions nobody in our family would ask out loud.
Then Ben came to see me.
He did not call first.
He just knocked twice and walked into my room like he owned the place, the way older cousins do when they think they are helping.
He was wearing a clean shirt and new shoes, and he smelled like aftershave and success.
“You look tired,” he said.
“I’m fine,” I said.
He sat on the edge of my bed and looked around at my cameras, my lights, and the designer boxes stacked against the wall.
“You make good money now, Quinn,” he said.
“So why is Dad still living like this?”
I did not answer.
I was editing a video, and I kept my eyes on the screen so I would not have to look at him.
“I’m serious,” Ben said.
“You should buy a modern apartment. Get Dad out of this old house.”
“He deserves better than a leaking roof and a kitchen from the eighties.”
My hands stopped on the keyboard.
I wanted to tell him to mind his own business.
I wanted to tell him that Dad loved this house, that every scuff on the floor was part of our life.
Instead I shrugged.
“Maybe,” I said.
“Maybe one day.”
Ben laughed, but it was not a kind laugh.
“One day is what people say when they mean never,” he said.
He stood up and straightened his shirt.
“Think about it,” he said.
“You’re the one with the money. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”
After he left, I sat there for a long time.
The room was quiet except for the hum of my computer.
Outside, I could hear Milo laughing in the garden and my dad calling him in for dinner.
I told myself Ben was just showing off because of his promotion.
I told myself I did not care what he thought.
But his words stayed in my head all evening.
That night, I could not sleep.
I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the old house settle around me.
I thought about the damp patch in the corner of my dad’s bedroom.
I thought about the front door that stuck every time it rained.
I thought about Milo doing his homework on the kitchen table because there was no desk anywhere else.
At two in the morning, I got up and opened my laptop.
My hands were shaking a little, but I told myself it was just tiredness.
I found the apartment Ben had mentioned, the one with the glass balcony and the bright white kitchen.
I looked at the photos again and again.
It looked clean, quiet, and safe.
It looked like a place where my dad could finally rest.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I paid the deposit.
The confirmation email arrived almost instantly.
It sat in my inbox like a secret I had just made.
I did not tell my dad.
I did not tell Milo.
I did not tell anyone.
The next morning, I waited until my dad had finished his tea.
He was sitting by the window with his newspaper, and Milo was drawing at the table.
I sat down across from him and tried to sound casual.
“Dad,” I said. “What if we tried living somewhere new for a while?”
He lowered his newspaper and looked at me over the top of it.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Just for a while,” I said quickly.
“A modern apartment. Bright, warm, no leaks. You could try it, and if you don’t like it, we can move back.”
“Nothing is permanent.”
My dad was quiet for a moment.
He looked at Milo, then at the walls of the house he had lived in for most of his life.
“Quinn,” he said slowly. “This is our home.”
“I know,” I said.
“And it will still be here. I’m not asking you to sell it. I’m just asking you to try.”
I leaned forward, and I could hear the hope in my own voice.
“You work so hard for us, Dad. Let me do this one thing for you.”
Milo looked up from his drawing.
“Is there a lift, Dad?” he asked my dad.
“And a balcony?”
My dad smiled a little despite himself.
“There is a lift,” I said.
“And a balcony, and a park downstairs.”
My dad folded his newspaper and put it down.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the way he always did when he was thinking.
“All right,” he said at last.
“We’ll try it for a while.”
“If it doesn’t feel right, we come home.”
I felt a rush of relief so strong it almost made me laugh.
“Deal,” I said.
I did not tell him I had already paid the deposit.
I did not tell him I had already signed the papers.
I told myself I would tell him later, when everything was already working out.
The moving day came faster than I expected.
The apartment smelled like fresh paint and new carpet.
Sunlight came through the big windows and fell across the pale wooden floor in clean, bright squares.
There was no damp smell, no draught under the door, no tap that dripped all night.
Milo ran from room to room, shouting with excitement.
“This one is mine!” he yelled, claiming the smaller bedroom.
“Look, Dad! I can see the whole street!”
My dad walked slowly through the rooms, touching the walls with his fingertips.
He opened the cupboards, checked the cooker, and looked out at the balcony.
“It’s very clean,” he said.
“It’s very quiet.”
He said it like a man who was not sure whether quiet was a good thing or a bad thing.
That afternoon, he invited all our relatives to visit.
He wanted them to see the new place, and he wanted Milo to feel proud.
Richard arrived first, in his best coat.
Margaret followed, carrying a cake in a plastic box.
Peter and Anna came next, and Ben arrived last, looking pleased with himself.
Victor came too, freshly showered, his hair still wet.
For a little while, it felt like a fresh start.
Everyone was smiling, talking loudly, and walking around the apartment with their hands behind their backs.
“This is nice, Quinn,” Margaret said, peering into the bathroom.
“Very modern.”
“Your dad deserves this,” Peter said, clapping me on the shoulder.
Milo showed everyone his new room, and Eleanor sent a small plant for the windowsill.
My dad stood in the middle of the living room, looking around at his family, and I saw something I had not seen in a long time.
He looked proud.
He looked like a man who had finally been given something back.
I went into my bedroom to put my bag away and to take a breath.
That was when I opened the drawer where I kept my cash.
I had been saving it for a brand deal, and I knew exactly how much should have been there.
I counted it once.
Then I counted it again, slower this time, my fingers cold.
£30,000 was missing.
My stomach dropped.
I stood there staring at the empty space in the drawer, and all the noise from the living room suddenly sounded very far away.
I thought about who had been in my room.
I thought about who had been asking me for money all week.
I thought about Victor, and the loan sharks, and the way he had looked at my designer boxes the day before.
I walked back into the living room with the drawer still open in my mind.
Everyone turned to look at me.
“Victor,” I said. “You took it, didn’t you?”
The room went silent.
Victor’s smile disappeared.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“My money,” I said, my voice rising.
“£30,000 is missing from my drawer. You took it.”
“I didn’t take anything!” Victor shouted, standing up.
“I’ve been here all day! Ask anyone!”
“You were the only one in my room yesterday,” I said.
“You were looking at my stuff. Don’t lie to me.”
Anna stood up beside him, her face flushed.
“Don’t you dare accuse my husband in front of everyone,” she said.
“Victor would never steal from family.”
“Then where is it?” I shouted back.
“Did it just walk out on its own?”
Margaret put her cake down hard on the table.
“Quinn, lower your voice,” she said.
“This is your father’s housewarming, not a police station.”
“My father’s housewarming?” I said.
“This is my apartment! I paid for it!”
“And my money is gone!”
Ben stepped between us, holding up both hands.
“Everyone, calm down,” he said.
“Quinn, you can’t just blame Victor without proof.”
“Proof?” I said, laughing bitterly.
“He owes loan sharks! He was drunk at your party! He smashed a bottle on Dad’s head!”
“That has nothing to do with this!” Victor yelled.
“You’re just jealous because Dad loves me too!”
The shouting got louder and louder.
Anna was crying now, and Margaret was shouting at me to apologise.
Peter was trying to pull Anna back, and Richard was telling everyone to stop.
I could hear Milo in the corner, small and scared, holding his teddy bear tight.
My dad had not said a word.
He was standing by the window, watching us, and his face had gone pale.
“Get out,” I said, pointing at the door.
“All of you, get out of my apartment.”
Margaret grabbed her bag.
“Fine,” she said, her voice shaking.
“We know when we’re not wanted.”
Anna grabbed her coat, and Ben followed them out without looking back.
The door slammed, and the apartment was suddenly very quiet.
Too quiet.
My dad looked at me, and I will never forget that look.
It was not anger.
It was worse than anger.
It was disappointment, deep and tired, like a man who had run out of hope.
He did not shout.
He did not explain.
He just took Milo by the hand and walked out without a word.
The door closed softly behind them.
I stood alone in my bright new apartment, surrounded by cake, empty glasses, and silence.
I sat on the sofa for a long time after they left.
The sunlight had moved across the floor, and the apartment no longer felt bright.
It felt empty, like a showroom nobody lived in.
I kept replaying the fight in my head.
I kept hearing my own voice, loud and cruel, and I kept seeing Milo’s frightened face.
I wanted to call my dad, but I did not know what to say.
Sorry felt too small, and too late.
A little later, there was a soft knock on the door.
It was Eleanor.
She was holding a small gift bag, the kind with tissue paper sticking out of the top.
She did not come in right away.
She just stood in the doorway and looked at me, the way a mother looks at a son who has just broken something precious.
“I heard,” she said quietly.
I tried to smile, but it did not work.
“Everyone heard,” I said.
Eleanor stepped inside and put the gift bag on the table.
It was a small scarf she had made, soft and grey, folded neatly.
“I made this for your dad,” she said.
“But I think you need it more right now.”
I picked it up, and it smelled faintly of her tailor shop, like fabric and warm tea.
“Quinn,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.
“Go and find a chance to say sorry to your father.”
“Before pride says it for you.”
I nodded, but I did not move.
“I will,” I said.
“Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
Eleanor looked at me for a moment longer, then she touched my arm.
“Tomorrow is not a promise,” she said.
“Remember that.”
Then she left, and the apartment was quiet again.
I meant to go to my dad the next day.
I really did.
But days passed, and I kept finding reasons not to go.
I told myself he needed space.
I told myself Milo needed time to forget the shouting.
I told myself I was busy with work.
The truth was simpler, and uglier.
I was ashamed, and I did not know how to face him.
A few days later, my phone rang while I was filming.
It was my dad, and his voice sounded strange, tired and guarded.
“Quinn,” he said. “A woman came to see me today.”
“What woman?” I asked, pausing the camera.
“She said she is Milo’s biological mother,” he said.
“She wanted money.”
My chest went tight.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I said no,” my dad said.
“I told her to leave, and she did. But Quinn, she looked desperate.”
“She looked like someone who would not stop.”
I tried to laugh it off.
“She’s probably just trying it on,” I said.
“Ignore her.”
But after I hung up, I could not focus on filming.
I kept thinking about Milo, about his small face, about all the years my dad had refused to answer questions about him.
That night, I was scrolling through my phone when I saw it.
A video, already shared thousands of times.
A woman, sitting in a car, looking straight into the camera.
She called herself Rachel Nash.
She said she was my ex-girlfriend.
She said Milo was my son.
She said my dad had hidden the truth from me for years, and that I had abandoned my own child to become famous.
The comments were exploding underneath.
Some people were angry.
Some people were laughing.
Some people were already calling me a liar, a fake, a man who would do anything for views.
My phone kept buzzing, again and again, until I turned it off and threw it on the bed.
My hands were shaking.
My throat was dry.
I had never met a woman called Rachel Nash in my life.
At least, I did not think I had.
I tried to remember.
I tried to think back to the years before Milo arrived, to the parties, the girls, the messy, lost years my dad always refused to talk about.
Nothing came back clearly.
Only a blur of faces and bad decisions.
By morning, the story was everywhere.
Brands were tagging me.
News pages were sharing screenshots.
Old videos of mine were being reposted with cruel captions.
I called my dad, and this time I did not try to stay calm.
I was furious, and I was scared, and I needed someone to blame.
“You ruined my career!” I shouted into the phone.
“All because you took in a child who isn’t even ours!”
“Do you know what they’re saying about me online?”
“They think I’m a deadbeat dad! They think I abandoned my own son!”
My dad was quiet for a long moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, and that calmness made me even angrier.
“No, Quinn,” he said.
“Milo is your son. He is your blood.”
I froze.
“What?” I whispered.
“I kept it from you,” my dad said, “because Rachel left, and you were too young and too lost to be a father then.”
“You were drinking, you were angry at the world, and you would have run.”
“So I took him in, and I raised him as my own, until you were ready to hear the truth.”
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
The room spun a little.
Milo.
My Milo.
The little boy who followed my dad around, who drew pictures on the kitchen table, who called me his big brother.
He was my son.
All those years, he had been my son, and I had not known.
“I didn’t know,” I said, my voice breaking.
“Dad, I didn’t know.”
“I know,” my dad said softly.
“That is why I never told you. I was protecting you. And I was protecting him.”
My career collapsed in days.
Sponsors dropped me first, one polite email after another, all saying the same thing in different words.
Then brands cancelled my contracts.
Then the penalties arrived, page after page, until I was drowning in debt I could not pay.
I stopped filming.
I stopped going outside.
I sat in my bright apartment and watched my whole life fall apart on a phone screen.
My dad did not hesitate.
He sold our old house to Margaret.
He used part of the money to help me pay what I owed, and with the rest he bought a pair of earrings for Eleanor.
When I found out, I felt like the floor had dropped away beneath me.
He had given up his home, the house where he had raised me and Milo, to save me again.
I stood in my apartment that night, looking at the city lights, and I knew what I had to do.
I thought about Milo asleep in the next room, his small hand curled around his teddy bear, and about my dad sitting alone in Eleanor’s kitchen, wearing his old coat, pretending he had not just lost everything.
I would sell this apartment too, and I would give him every penny back, even if it meant starting again with nothing.
❤️ Thank you for staying with me in Part 2. Do you think a father should hide a secret like that to protect his son, or should he have told the truth from the start? Tell me in the comments, and Part 3 is waiting for you there. If you don’t see it yet, tap View all comments. 🙏✨
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