I remember him as a rather strange man with a knack for cruelty. My own father was nothing like that; I dont recall being punished by him ever. But the day I turned eight and Adam showed up at our doorstep, my world shiftedsuddenly, I was getting the strap with remarkable regularity. I got scolded for lousy grades, coming home late from a walk, muddying up new clothes, you name it. Mum, meanwhile, couldnt have looked less bothered; her poker face had nothing on the Queen’s.
Birthdays were always an odd affair. Gifts came exclusively from Mummy stepfather treated me like I was just some passing acquaintance. He wouldnt let me call him Dad, and, frankly, I had no intention of doing so either.
At one point, I reasoned that the pinnacle of my life would be to move out and fend for myself. Still, there comes a time when you realise your parents, however eccentric, cared for you in their own peculiar way. Love is never straightforward, is it? Sooner or later, theyre bound to need your help.
By the time Adam hit seventy, he was entirely alone. Seeing as I was the only child he and Mum had between them, the responsibility of looking after him fell squarely on my shoulders. So I did my bit: I helped with the shopping, took the old chap out for walks, and tried to amuse him now and then with rare visits from his grandchildren. My stepfather never warmed up to me, but he adored the grandkidsnever a single harsh word for them. Hed turned into that quintessential British granddad, forever ready with a lecture if I so much as raised my voice, and the belt was strictly reserved for the past, never for the little ones.
When he was passing away in a stark white hospital room, worn down by heart troubles and endless procedures, he kept asking for me. I sat with him for ages, reminiscing about childhood stories, and for the first time, Adam opened up in a way he never had before. It dawned on me that hed been trying to raise me all alongthose punishments were never just for the sake of it. They were always earned.
Alongside the will (which, shockingly, left his entire estate to me), a few days before his misery ended, he handed me a presenta gold ring that had belonged to his own father. Heavy and broad, but it fit my finger. Adam gave me a rueful smile and said:
Sorry for all the wrongs. I was just learning how to be a dad back then. Hope I got something right, at least.His words settled into the silence between us, deeper than any strap or scold ever had. I slipped the ring onto my finger, feeling the cool weight of generations, and squeezed his hand. For a moment, I wondered what it might have been like if he’d gotten it right from the start. But, like the ring, love comes battered, handed down, shaped by mistakes and stubborn hope.
Years later, whenever my own children argued over trivial things or disappointed me, I’d find my thumb unconsciously tracing the curve of that gold band. I’d hesitate, remember Adam’s awkward apology, and choose patience over wrath. Maybe that’s what he meant by getting something right.
In the end, all that’s left is what you hold ontoand what you let go. Adam gave me both.
