“And he spoke to me like absolute shit! Always putting me down cus’ of his own insecurities.”

I listen intently, sat across from you on the sofa in your apartment in the centre of London, you’re ranting about how shitty my son—Jake—treated you during your relationship and I can’t say I blame you. I know the relationship was rocky, the breakup was rough. I came to your place today to check on you considering my son selfishly isn’t worried about how you’re doing, too busy hooking up with new girls almost everyday.

I say my son, but he’s not biologically mine. He’s your age—twenty—I adopted him back when I was only twenty one. He was ten years old, he came from a broken home and I was desperate to give him the stability he deserved. One direction had just gone on a hiatus and I was financially able to provide for a child, and I felt like I had all the love in the world to give him. Hence why I’m now thirty one years old with a twenty year old son. But now here you are—his ex girlfriend—sat in front of me telling me just how terribly he treated you, it makes my stomach turn and a wave of guilt washes over me. I feel like I failed as a father even though I had always taken the time to tell him you must treat women with the upmost respect. You’re a beautiful, fiercely loyal girl and my son had taken you for granted.

“Not only did Jake belittle me, patronise me and cheat on me, he was shit in bed too!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up in frustration.

Hearing about my son’s faults in the bedroom isn’t something I ever expected.

“Christ…” I rub a hand over my jaw, smirking slightly despite myself. “Poor girl. Imagine putting up with all his bullshit and not even getting a decent fuck out of it.”