No One Can Replace a Dad
Call me Dad. Do you hear me? I want you to call me Dad! Richard hissed, trying to keep his composure, although his forced calm sounded about as natural as instant mash. He couldnt stand Olivers stubborn refusal to grant him this one, supposedly trivial, request. I feed you, I keep a roof over your head, I sort your problems. Havent I earned that bit of respect?
Oliver stood opposite, feeling a hot tide of irritation rising inside him, as if Richards words found the exact spot where it hurt most. To him, this new husband of his mum’s might as well be a visitor whod wandered in and decided to park himself permanently on the sofa now determined to squat in a space that simply wasnt his. The very idea of calling someone Dad when he already had a perfectly good one made his insides revolt.
I’ve already got a Dad! Oliver blurted, hands balled into fists so tight, the knuckles turned white. I dont need another one! And, by the way, my father pays plenty of maintenance. I never asked for anything from you. So stop trying to bulldoze me! Enough!
Without waiting for a reply, Oliver executed a dramatic pivot and shot off to his room, slamming the door so hard it made the windows rattle. He turned the key in the lock as if that alone could seal him off from the chaos outside. His heart was thundering, his temples throbbed, and every muscle tensed like a reluctant schoolboy on Athletics Day.
Face-down in the pillow, Oliver tried to muffle the racket brewing outside. Richards voice, booming through the door, accused his mum of letting Oliver run wild and pandering to a childs rampant selfishness.
Whats selfish about this?! Oliver screamed inside his own head, clinging to the pillow so hard his fingers ached. Is keeping a bond with my own dad a whim? Why on earth am I supposed to call a stranger Dad, someone who does nothing but shout and expects blind obedience? When did my life become someone elses property?!
Round and round those questions went, winding the knot of resentment tighter. He felt trapped like he was being forced to surrender something crucial in exchange for a pile of other peoples rules and expectations.
Mum, to his considerable disappointment (and more than a little heartbreak), usually took her husbands side. Every morning dawned with that same well-meaning frown: shed gently plead for him to be more mature, to give the adult a chance, to see how Richard meant well. Oliver would nod along, but inside he was ready to burst. He just couldnt explain that it wasnt about childish tantrums or a stubborn refusal to compromise. It was the word Dadnot simply three letters, but an unbreakable link, not up for rewiring just because someone else wanted it that way.
Meant well?! Spare me, Oliver grumbled, anger flaring again. Ill never call him Dad. He hasnt earned it. Let him lecture his own kid and leave me out of it! Why can’t they see this hurts? Why does nobody hear me?!
Out of nowhere, the quiet shattered with a thumping on the door a heavy blow, then another, hard enough that the lock gave a protesting squawk before the door burst open. And there stood Richard, face twisted in fury, eyes blazing, and a belt clutched tightly in his hand. A picturesque portrait of healthy family dynamics, that.
You will do as I say! he thundered, his bellow bouncing off the walls. Stop acting like youre some sort of special case! I run this house! You do as youre told! Your opinion isnt wanted. Got it?
Oliver froze, ice crawling down his back. Richard surged forward, brandishing the belt, and before Oliver could think, pain shot through his shoulder a sharp, burning sting that left a vivid red mark. Everything went black for a heartbeat with the combination of fear and stinging humiliation. Richard made to swing again
Something snapped inside Oliver. Panic was suddenly replaced by raw determination. He slid off the bed lightning-fast, a slippery eel with nothing left to lose. Without a second thought, he kicked Richard square in the knee. Richard, utterly unprepared for any resistance, toppled onto the bed in a most undignified heap.
Not wasting a heartbeat, Oliver yanked on his trainers (laces optional at this hour), grabbed his windbreaker, and legged it. His heart was still a jackhammer as he dashed out the door, onto the street, gulping the bracing air like a swimmer whod resurfaced just in time.
He ran blind, aiming only for away away from that house, those voices, that no-win battle. The only thing in his head: Dont let them catch up. He didnt know where he was running, just that he couldnt go back right now.
After about three hundred metres, Oliver ducked into a shadowy alleyway. His legs turned to jelly, his breath burned, and he slumped against a chilly brick wall as if it might hold him up. Sweat trickled down his back, heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear himself think.
Hed never run like this before, chased by his own fear rather than a grumpy PE teacher with a whistle. Every inch of him screamed, but he barely noticed; inside, a storm of emotions raged wilder than a Saturday at White Hart Lane. His thoughts scattered, impossible to corral.
What set him off?! Weve had this out so many times. I told him, I cant call him Dad its not right for me. Why today, of all days, turn from threats to action? The belt he actually hit me. What about next time? What then?
The realisation sent a shudder through him. He hugged himself, not because of the chilly evening that stubborn English drizzle couldnt touch the cold knot clamped in his middle. Snatches of memory flashed: Richard yelling, belt whipping down, agony in his shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the images, but they surged back the moment he blinked.
His breathing slowed, thoughts gradually coming back into focus. A plan began to take shape. Ill move in with Dad. Or Ill get social services involved I heard that talk at school, didnt I? Recently, a stern lady had come to their assembly, glasses slipping down her nose, explaining that every child has a right to safety and decent treatment that cruelty at home was a crime, plain and simple.
It is a crime! Oliver clenched his fists. Child abuse. Thats something they can go to jail for. Im not keeping quiet! I wont let anyone treat me that way again!
He pictured telling his dad everything, sitting down together to make the big decisions at last. The thought that something might change, finally, gave him strength. He wiped sweat from his forehead and took a few steadying breaths, trying to coax his body back under control.
And then, softly but clearly, a womans voice seemed to float up from nowhere:
Are you all right, love?
Oliver looked up. Before him stood a woman of about forty, eyeing him with familiar English concern the look you get when you’re crying in a bus shelter or wearing a T-shirt in November. He probably looked a mess: red-faced, eyes swollen, breath hitching, sweat streaked across his back, barely holding in the sobs.
Not exactly, he managed, his voice wavering like a radio with a dodgy connection. The words cost him effort, scraping their way out.
She stepped closer, peering at him with so much warmth and concern that something inside him wobbled alarmingly. He nearly caved in to tears, but bit his lip and blinked fast, holding them back by sheer will.
Do you need some help, sweetheart? she said, gently, unfazed and genuinely caring a tone that threw Oliver for a moment.
He hesitated, collecting his scattered thoughts. He knew he couldn’t stay here. He had to keep moving.
Yes please, Oliver said at last, levering himself up and trying to hold his chin high, as if not to let on how frightened and lost he really felt. Could you tell me which bus goes to Woodlands Estate?
She frowned, concerned. Thats a fair way off. Are you sure you need to go out there? Seeing his stubborn, almost desperate look, she softened immediately. Let me call you a cab. Safer that way.
Oliver instinctively fished in his pocket, finding a handful of change and managing a hollow laugh.
Ive not got enough for a taxi, he confessed, only just remembering, with a wince, that hed legged it so fast hed left his phone behind, too.
No matter, she replied easily, not breaking eye contact. Ill pay for it. And, if you like, Ill stay with you until someone meets you. Who are you going to see?
Oliver dropped his gaze, frowning at his trainers. There was a lump in his throat, but he swallowed and muttered:
My Dad. He doesnt know Im coming. I hope hes home.
Can you ring him, let him know youre on your way? she suggested, head tilted just so, still searching his face.
Left my phone at home. I well, I sort of ran away. The words escaped in a whisper; this time, the tears really came, tracing salty lines down his cheeks. At last, something inside him seemed to snap hed bottled it up for so long, but now everything tumbled out, a jumble of words and feelings.
The womans frown deepened she saw, no doubt, flashes of her own teenage son in this bedraggled boy. The idea that he could be out on his own, in such a state, made her heart ache. Without thinking, she stepped forward, as if to shield him from every trouble in the world.
Right. Ill call you that cab, but why dont you tell me whats been going on while we wait? Maybe I can help.
So Oliver told her everything. At first it came in fits and starts, but soon the words poured out, gushing past whatever mute dam had held them in. He told her about Richard his stepfather, whod installed himself in the house and promptly declared himself the Supreme Ruler of All. How Richard demanded not only total obedience and absolute rule-following, but also a ready-made bond: the honour of being called Dad. How hed raise his voice at the slightest thing, bark out orders, and criticise Olivers every choice, especially his attempts at being his own person.
He spoke of his mum, once his closest ally, now an apologist for Richard’s every mood swing. She reasoned, pleaded, wheedled: Just try to be reasonable, darling, he only wants whats best for you. But how could she not see how much it all hurt, how lost he felt?
You see, Oliver hiccupped, scrubbing at his cheeks, ever since Mum remarried, everythings just… wrong! Richard barged in and decided hes the boss everyone must follow his rules, or else. He makes me go to self-defence classes I hate them! I love to draw. I go to art school, and the teachers there say Im talented. They look at my sketches, they encourage me, say Ive a real eye for colour and shape.
His voice shook, but he pressed on, desperate at last for someone to listen:
I study computer art as well. Im learning programmes for digital design, watch loads of tutorials… I want to make graphics that people love, things that make them happy. I want my life to mean something. Richard, though, says its all nonsense, not a proper job. Doesnt he get it? This is my dream, not just some silly phase!
He stopped, breathing hard and blinking fiercely. For the first time, he felt lighter, like hed finally said what needed saying.
You think about your future? Thats fantastic! the woman said, sincere and kind. The warmth in her voice did something magical: it melted the ice around his heart, chipped away at the old doubts.
Thank you, Oliver mumbled, wiping tears awkwardly. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this not to scold, not to advise, just to listen? I want to earn plenty, buy a house one day, maybe a decent car, all sorts! I want Mum to see I can do it, that Im not a hopeless dreamer, but someone who knows exactly what he wants and will work for it.
Keep at it, Oliver, she smiled, meeting his eyes. I reckon youre just the person to do it.
Those words shone inside him like golden sunlight on a dreary London day. When had he last heard such faith in him? Richard always laughed at the idea: Drawing? Computers? Real men need real jobs like engineering, construction, or proper sports! Even his mum, though gentler, would sigh, Why not become a doctor? Thats useful. Drawings lovely, but not as a career
But here, at last, was a stranger who believed in him not as a project, but as a person with dreams and drive. The boulder on his shoulders felt just a bit lighter.
Richards got his own child, but they barely speak, Oliver went on, realising even as he spoke that rambling was somehow making it better. Maybe he gave up dealing with Richards lectures too… And now, suddenly, he wants to play family man laying down the law, stopping me from everything, trying to transform me But what annoys me most is him insisting I call him Dad!
It stung, but he said it softly, and more defiantly:
But I wont. My dads not perfect, but hes been there since I was small when I skinned my knee, or got rubbish grades, or started doodling all over my textbooks. He never mocked me, never said my art was a waste of time. I could never betray him like that. Never
At last they arrived at the block of flats. The woman, whod kept up a gentle banter to distract and encourage him, insisted she see him safely home just to be sure.
They climbed to the right floor and she nudged him gently forward. Well, youre here. Knock for your dad. Ill wait here to make sure alls well.
Heart in his mouth, Oliver pressed the bell. The door flew open almost at once. There stood his dad Simon, in a faded old Arsenal top and jeans, looking worried for all of two seconds before relief swept his face clean.
Oliver! You gave me a fright! Simon pulled him into a crushing hug, voice thick with everything Oliver had been craving concern, relief, love. Tell me the lot, lad! Your mum rang said youd run off, but thats all she said.
Oliver took a steadying breath and started at the beginning slowly at first, then in a torrent. He told his dad about Richards endless nitpicking and lectures, about being ordered to use the word Dad for someone whod never felt like a father, the spiralling arguments. He faltered when he got to the hardest bit the belt, the pain, the fear.
Hes never… Hes never hit me before, Oliver whispered, the old tears stinging again. I just… I had to get out. But then I met this woman She helped me get here.
He glanced back to thank her, only to see her quietly retreating down the stairs, apparently happy now shed seen him safe.
At the very end, pressed into his dads side, he managed:
Please, Dad, dont make me go back. I cant do it anymore. Im scared…
Simon hugged him tighter, rage simmering in his veins, but knowing that now was not the time for grand gestures. Instead, he ruffled Olivers hair, murmuring:
Youre safe now, son. No ones taking you anywhere. I promise.
When Oliver, crumpled by exhaustion, finally fell asleep on the sofa, Simon gently tucked a blanket around him. His jaw set thered be a reckoning with his ex-wife, a conversation long overdue, but that could wait. This had to end one way or another.
********************
The next morning, Oliver joyously unpacked his things in what was now his new room. He laid out his pencils and brushes on his desk with reverence. First, he lined up his watercolour brushes by size, then sorted pencils by shade and softness, giving each item a degree of attention that would impress even a drill sergeant.
Then he pinned up his best pictures over his bed: a sunset over a calm river, a precise sketch of his favourite cat (whiskers and all), and an abstract swirl that had won high praise at art clubhis teacher swore he had an innate sense of colour.
Each thing found its place like it belonged there, and for the first time in ages, Oliver allowed himself the thought: This is my home. Not just somewhere to sleep, nor a place to walk on eggshells a real home, where he could simply be himself. He looked around: desk by the window, books on the shelves, art on the walls. Everything felt right, normal warm and safe.
So what do you reckon? came his fathers voice from the door.
Oliver turned. Simon leant in the doorway, looking at his son with a pride that couldnt be hidden if he tried.
I love it, Oliver said, voice almost breaking, though this time only with thankfulness and joy. Thank you, Dad.
Simon stepped over, rested a steadying hand on his shoulder. It was a promise as much as a comfort Youre under my care now.
Youre safe here. No one and I mean no one is hurting you again, Simon said. Which, given that Simon rarely pronounced on anything except tea and penalties, was assurance enough for a lifetime.
Those words sank into Oliver, melting away the leftover anxiety like sun on frost. He couldnt speak, only nodded hard and turned back to his desk, blinking away happy tears. At long last, the weight hed carried for months slid away, replaced by a lightness that felt nearly strange.
********************
Six months later, Oliver walked out of art school, clutching a new sketch, only to spot his mum in the street. She wandered past among the crowd, looking straight through him, absentmindedly fiddling with her scarf, lost in some private worry. He watched her pause at a shop window, studying her face. The lines of tiredness were deeper now, an emptiness in her eyes that hadnt been there before.
Oliver hesitated, heart twisting. Part of him wanted to call out, rush over, share his news, ask about her. But the words wouldnt come; instead, all the old memories replayed her weary acceptance of Richards demands, the times she stood by, the cold silence that followed.
Shed made her choice, right down to telling the court that Richard had done nothing wrong. That ended things Oliver didnt look back.
********************
On the night of his art school graduation, the room bristled with excitement. Canvases crowded the walls, bold splashes of colour and creativity everywhere, the pride of kids whod finally found their calling.
Oliver clutched his diploma, hands shaking ever so slightly, and fixed his gaze on his winning piece a sweeping park scene ablaze with autumn leaves. When his name was called as the local competition winner, applause filled the room. Someone whistled; his painting teacher beamed.
Scanning the rows, Oliver spotted his dad. Simon beamed from the front row, phone in hand, determined to record every moment: the handshake, the applause, Olivers shy grin. All the warmth Oliver ever craved radiated from that spot.
When the party thinned out, Simon swooped in and hugged him tight, a real, wordless hug the kind only true family know.
I always knew youd do it, Simon said, not as a pep talk but as an immutable fact. Youre my hero.
Oliver hugged him back, confidence blooming in his chest not the kind youre given, the kind you fight for. All those late nights, dozens of torn sketches and doubts… and hed made it, because it had always been his journey.
Yeah, he whispered to himself as much as Simon. Im going to be all right.
Back home, when the hubbub had faded, Oliver took down a photograph dad and son, grinning on a blasted windy beach, hair wild, sea and sky stretching on forever. It was one of those rare, perfect moments that stick with you.
He set the picture beside his most recent drawings, evidence of both his past and what hed accomplished. He paused, then murmured:
Thanks for not giving up on me.
Simon, poking his head in, caught the words. He didnt launch into some speech or rake over old hurts. He simply smiled, calm and unwavering, and said:
And I never will.
And this time, Oliver believed it: everything really was going to be all right.
