The Partial Father
They had separate accounts, separate savings. Every single grocery bill was meticulously divided.
The day before my father died, he signed over all twenty-five of his properties to his illegitimate son.
I expected my mother to scream, to cry, to fight.
She did nothing. She just signed the papers, her face a placid mask.
When his son and mistress moved into the largest waterfront mansion, my mother even sent them a fruit basket.
Three years later, my mom had a massive stroke and was rushed to the hospital.
I was frantic, but she just calmly told me to go to the bank.
I took her debit card, punched in the PIN, and the moment I saw the balance, my world simply stopped.
My mother, propped up against her hospital pillows, just smiled, as serene as a summer cloud.
01
The air in the living room was thick and cold, heavy as iron.
Each tick of the old grandfather clock was a hammer blow against my nerves, a dull, grating echo in the silence.
My father, Arthur Collins, the man who had gone Dutch with my mother for forty-six years, had taken his last breath yesterday.
Today, his lawyer sat on our sofa, a frigid last will and testament resting on his knees.
That sofa was twenty years old, its leather surface cracked and peeling, revealing the yellowed foam underneath like a dozen mocking lips.
My mother, Helen Collins, sat perched on that worn-out piece of furniture, her spine ramrod straight, her silver hair pinned back immaculately. She wore a plain, faded blouse, her expression as still as a frozen lake. You would think the lawyer was about to announce grocery prices, not deliver the final verdict on her forty-six-year marriage.
The lawyer adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. The lenses caught the gloomy light from the window, hiding his eyes. He cleared his throat and began to read the document in a flat, emotionless monotone.
In accordance with the final wishes of Mr. Arthur Collins, all personal assets, including a total of twenty-five properties located in the city and surrounding suburbs, are to be inherited in their entirety by his son, Mr. Ethan Reed.
Ethan.
The illegitimate son, only a few years younger than me.
The one my father always called his true heir.
Blood rushed to my head, a roar filling my ears as the room began to spin. Twenty-five properties!
Every penny my father saved by nickel-and-diming my mother, the entire fortune built on her quiet sacrifice and endless toleranceit was all going to that bastard who had no right to any of it.
What about us? My voice was a raw, scraping sound, each word forced through gritted teeth. What about my mother and me?
The lawyers gaze finally lifted from the papers, landing on me with a look of professional pity. Mr. Collins, taking into account his forty-plus years of marriage to Mrs. Helen Collins, has granted residency rights for this current property to Mrs. Collins and Ms. Claire Collins.
Residency rights.
What a generous gift. We were like a pair of aging pets, permitted to keep living in our dingy cage until we died. The ownership, of course, would also belong to that young man, Ethan.
Something inside me snapped.
Rage, hot as lava, churned in my gut. I felt like I was about to explode. I shot to my feet, ready to flip the coffee table and its stack of deceitful papers. I wanted to shred that damned will. I wanted to throw this so-called lawyer, this accomplice to a lifetime of theft, out of my house.
But a cool, thin hand clamped down on my wrist. It was wrinkled, ancient, but the grip was surprisingly strong, a steel trap that snuffed out all my fury.
It was my mother.
She was still sitting calmly, not even looking at me. Her eyes were fixed on the lawyer as she spoke softly. Give me the papers.
The lawyer passed them over, along with a pen.
I watched, stunned, as my motherthe woman I thought would be more devastated than anyonetook the pen.
At the bottom of the document, on the page that reduced her forty-six-year marriage to a footnote, she signed her name with a steady hand.
Helen Collins.
The letters were neat and elegant, befitting a retired schoolteacher. Not a single tremor. Not a moments hesitation.
After signing, she pushed the document back toward the lawyer. Her tone was as casual as if she were commenting on the weather. There you are.
The lawyer picked up the document. As he looked at my mother, his professional pity seemed to morph into genuine awe, mixed with a sliver of disbelief. He stood, gave my mother a slight bow, and left in a hurry, as if afraid the crushing silence of the room might swallow him whole.
The moment the door clicked shut, I lost it.
Why? I screamed at her back, my voice sharp and ragged. Why did you sign it? Are you happy with this? Forty-six years! You split the cost of a single onion with him! And all you get is the right to keep living here? Are you insane?
I felt like the absurdity of it all was driving me mad. How could she be so calm? What right did she have to be so calm? After being betrayed, abandoned, and humiliated like this, shouldn't she be weeping, wailing, cursing his name?
My mother finally turned around.
She looked at me, her usually gentle eyes now as deep and unreadable as a forgotten well. There wasn't a ripple of emotion in them.
All she said was, Whats the point in fighting?
Hes gone now.
With that, she turned and walked into the kitchen, leaving me with nothing but the sight of her frail, indifferent back.
I froze, a chill spreading through my veins.
Hes gone now.
Right. He was gone, so everything was set in stone. Nothing could be changed.
But I couldnt accept it. I couldnt accept her weakness, her passivity, her meek submission. It wasnt just weakness, it was numbness. It was stupidity!
BAM!
I kicked the leg of the coffee table, the loud crack echoing through the empty living room. Then I grabbed my jacket and slammed the door behind me.
This house, this place that was suffocating me with despair, I couldn't stand to be in it for one more second.
02
I wandered aimlessly all day, only dragging myself back to that place I was supposed to call "home" after the sky had bled to black.
As I approached my building, the roar of a powerful engine shattered the quiet of the old neighborhood. A brand-new black SUV was parked aggressively in front of our shabby apartment entrance, its headlights cutting blindingly through the dark.
The driver's door opened and a young man stepped out, decked out in designer streetwear, his hair slicked back with too much product.
It was Ethan.
Behind him, a garishly dressed, middle-aged woman dripping in cheap jewelry and a faux fur coat emerged. His mother.
They had actually come here.
The anger Id been suppressing all day erupted. I stormed over and blocked their path. What are you doing here? I spat, my voice dripping with hostility.
Ethan saw me and a smug, condescending smirk spread across his face. Well, if it isnt my big sister. Dont be so hostile. We just came to check on Aunt Helen. Were all family now, after all.
His mother, the mistress, pulled a thick envelope from her designer knock-off purse and held it out to me with an air of superiority. Heres fifty thousand dollars. Arthur left specific instructions before he passed. He said it was compensation for you and your mother. Take it. It should last you a while.
Compensation?
Fifty thousand dollars?
Were they tipping the help?
The insult was so profound it felt like a physical blow. My blood boiled. I stared at the envelope, wishing I could set it on fire with my gaze.
Ethan walked past me and started sizing up our rundown building, his tone dripping with disdain. Jeez, this place is a dump. How could Dad let you live in a place like this? Wait a few days until I move into the waterfront mansion. You should come see it. Now thats living.
He turned back to me, seeming to savor my humiliation. Oh, by the way, sis, I just ordered a new sports car. Two million dollars. It's blue, totally sick. Ill take you for a spin when it gets here, show you what life is like for Dads real son.
Every word was a poisoned dagger straight to my heart.
I was shaking with rage. I pointed a trembling finger at them and screamed, Get out! Take your filthy money and get the hell out of here!
I lunged forward to shove them, to physically expel their disgusting presence from my sight.
Claire, stop.
A calm voice came from behind me. My mother had appeared in the shadows of the buildings entrance, a silent silhouette.
She walked forward and, to my utter horror, took the envelope of cash from the mistresss hand.
My heart sank into a black abyss.
Not only did she take it, but she offered the pair a smile that could almost be described as pleasant. Thank you for coming to see me. Please, feel free to visit again sometime.
My mind went blank. I couldnt believe what I was seeing, what I was hearing. Was this my mother? Was this the woman whose husband and lifes fortune had been stolen from her? Had her spine been surgically removed? Had a dog eaten her dignity?
Ethan and his mother were clearly surprised by how easy it was. They exchanged a look, their eyes shining with triumph and contempt. They offered a few more hollow condolences, then climbed back into their car, satisfied. The engine roared to life, and they sped away, leaving a cloud of exhaust in their wake.
I stood frozen until the car was completely out of sight. Then, I found my voice. I spun around to face my mother, feeling like a cornered animal.
Why did you take their money? Why did you smile at them? Did you know about all this? Do you just not care? Do you have any pride left at all? My voice, echoing in the empty stairwell, was laced with tears and utter despair.
My mother didnt look at me. She just clutched the envelope and silently started walking up the stairs.
I followed her, watching as she unlocked the door and stepped into the dark apartment. She didnt turn on the lights. She walked straight to the dining table and began clearing away the dishes from the night before.
It was from the last meal wed eaten on the day my father died. The leftovers had congealed in the plates.
She just cleared them in silence, plate by plate, bowl by bowl, her movements slow and mechanical, as if my furious questions, my screams, my pain, were nothing but empty air.
In that moment, all my energy, all my fight, just evaporated. I stared at her stubborn, silent back, and a wave of disappointment so profound it felt like drowning washed over me.
There was a chasm between us, a gap too wide to cross. I couldnt understand her. I couldnt reach her. We were living under the same roof, but we were worlds apart.
03
In the days that followed, my mother and I descended into a cold war. The humiliation, however, was far from over.
A few days later, a gold-embossed invitation was shoved through our mail slot.
Ethan was hosting a housewarming party at the grand waterfront mansion my father had left him. Our names, mine and my mothers, were printed in gleaming script.
It was a blatant provocation, a deliberate act of rubbing our faces in the dirt.
I snatched the invitation and, right in front of my mother, ripped it into tiny pieces. The confetti-like scraps fluttered down, settling in the icy air between us.
I would rather die than go, I bit out, each word sharp with hate.
My mother merely glanced at the paper littering the floor, said nothing, and went back to polishing her precious porcelain tea set.
I thought that was the end of it. I thought, this time, she would finally be on my side.
I was wrong.
The day of the party was a Saturday. I locked myself in my room, trying to drown out the world with loud music and old books.
In the afternoon, I heard rustling sounds from the living room. I cracked my door open just a sliver, and the sight that greeted me felt like a bolt of lightning to the chest.
My mother had changed into a clean, dark coat. In her hand, she held a fruit basket, exquisitely wrapped in cellophane. The fruit inside was plump and glossy, clearly expensive.
It was obvious where she was going.
I burst out of my room and stood in front of her, my eyes wide with disbelief. Where are you going?
She looked at me calmly, as if she were stating the most normal thing in the world. To congratulate your brother.
Brother?
The word was like two red-hot needles driven into my ears, piercing my heart. My world, in that instant, completely fell apart.
All my anger, my pain, my confusionit all came crashing down, shattering the last of my composure. I screamed at her, my voice raw and hysterical.
Have you no dignity? Have you no shame? He is not my brother! Hes a bastard, a thief who stole everything from us! And youre going to congratulate him with a fruit basket? Are you trying to tell the whole world that you deserved this?
My voice trembled as tears streamed down my face. I wasnt crying for the lost money. I was crying for my mothers numb, self-deprecating spirit. It was heartbreaking. It was hopeless.
My mother stared at me.
This time, her eyes werent a placid, bottomless well. Something was churning in their depths, an emotion I couldn't deciphercomplex, dark, like a storm over a sunless sea. There was pain, conflict, and a flicker of finality.
She didn't explain. She just gave me one last, deep look, then moved past me and opened the door.
Click.
The door shut. And with it, the last shred of hope I had for her.
I collapsed onto the floor, every ounce of strength gone from my body. It was over. My mother, my only family, had completely lost her mind.
I sat on the cold floor for a long time, until my limbs went numb. My phone buzzed. It was a friend of mine who worked in media. Her voice was cautious, laced with pity.
Claire, are you okay? I Im at Ethans housewarming party. I just saw your mom.
My heart seized. How how is she?
My friend sighed, her voice full of frustration. Listen, dont get mad, but Ethan and his mother are absolute trash. They sat your mom at a table in the farthest corner with a bunch of distant relatives nobody knows. During dinner, Ethans mom walked around with a wine glass, telling everyone how understanding and magnanimous your mother is. The way she said it, she might as well have called her an idiot to her face.
Someone even asked your mom how she felt about Arthur leaving everything to his son, and why she didn't fight it. Your mom just smiled and said, Its for the best.
Claire, people are whispering. Theyre saying your mom is
My friend trailed off, but I knew what she was going to say. That my mom was a spineless doormat. That she was a weakling. That she was the biggest fool in the world.
My head swam, and my vision blurred. I hung up the phone, unable to listen to another word.
My heart was dead.
I couldn't stay in this house, this place filled with nothing but shame and painful memories. I scrambled to my feet, ran into my room, and started throwing clothes into a suitcase.
I had to get out of here. I had to get as far away as possible.
I never wanted to see my mothers numb face again. I never wanted to be a part of this pathetic story.
Out of sight, out of mind.
04
I moved out and didnt look back for three years.
For three years, I was an ostrich with its head buried in the sand. I worked relentlessly, pouring all my energy into my career, trying to use the crushing workload to numb the pain and forget the past.
My mother and I barely spoke. She would call occasionally, asking if I was doing okay, if I had enough money. Our conversations were always short and polite, like two distant relatives making a perfunctory check-in.
I tried not to think about her life, but Id still hear things through the grapevine.
I heard that Ethan, after getting his hands on those twenty-five properties, went completely off the rails. He sold off a few of the best-located, easiest-to-liquidate apartments and blew the money on gambling, women, and lavish parties. He and his mother became a running joke in high society circlesthe classic overnight millionaires with no class, a pair of adult children with too much money.
Hearing this brought me no satisfaction, only a dull, lingering sadness.
Sometimes, late at night, I would think of my mother. Id picture her alone in that old house, her face a mask of unsettling calm. But then the image of her carrying that fruit basket to the party would flash in my mind, and the old anger would flare up again.
I couldnt forgive her for not fighting back. I hated her weakness, which had made both of us the butt of everyones jokes.
Time drifted by in this haze of resentment and distance. I figured this was how it would always be between us, a cold silence that would last until one of us died.
But tragedy, as it turns out, doesn't wait for an invitation.
One afternoon, I was in the middle of a critical project meeting at work. My phone, set to silent, was vibrating nonstop on the table. Annoyed, I declined the call, but the person immediately called back. And again. It was an unknown number.
A strange sense of dread washed over me. I excused myself from the meeting and stepped into the hallway to answer.
Hello, am I speaking with Ms. Claire Collins, daughter of Mrs. Helen Collins?
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