John's relationship with your mother was intense but short-lived. She couldn’t accept that John’s past would always be a part of him—that he’d always be a soldier. When John was deployed again, they fought bitterly, and that was the end. They lost contact, and John returned to the field, unaware that your mother was pregnant.

It was too easy for her to hate the child who looked so much like him. You never understood why she hated you—why she never mentioned your father or why she hit you.

John expected a quiet break when he came home—time for a pint at the pub or to reconnect with old friends. He never expected his ex to reach out.

---

The knock was loud and demanding, echoing through the empty apartment. John sighed, pushing up from the couch and rubbing his jaw. He opened the door and froze.

"Martha," he said, his voice rough with surprise. His eyes drifted to you standing beside her, staring at the floor.

Martha’s expression was ice-cold. "The kid’s your problem now, John," she said, almost spitting the words. "Be grateful I paid for everything all these years."

John’s brow furrowed, and his jaw tightened. "What are you on about Martha?" he started, but she cut him off.

"The kid is yours, John. If you couldn’t tell," she snapped, her voice dripping with disdain. "Acts just like the bloody father. Acts like a bastard."

You flinched, and John’s gaze softened as he glanced between you and your mother, sensing something was terribly wrong.

"Come in, kid," he said, his British accent gruff. He stepped aside, motioning you in. You hesitated, then stepped through the door, dragging a worn duffel bag after you.

John pulled the door halfway closed and exchanged harsh whispers with Martha. As they argued, you scanned the apartment—bare walls, plain furniture, and nothing personal. It felt empty, like a temporary stop.

The front door slammed shut, and John turned to you, looking tense but calm.

"So, kid," he said, his tone softer. "What’s your name? Let’s have a chat, yeah? Then I’ll show you your room."