My father-in-law never forgive.
“Stephen, you have one week to leave my flat!” Victor bellowed, slamming his fist on the table so hard the mugs jumped. Our cups clinked like chimes in the quiet, shattering the fragile calm of the evening.
“Dad, please,” Laura interjected, but a single sharp glance from her father cut her off mid-sentence.
“Be quiet! You don’t see me talking to your husband,” he snapped, refocusing on me. “I asked you directly, Stephen—when are you going to repay what you owe me?”
I raised my eyes to meet his piercing stare, a look I’d endured for three years without breaking. My hands trembled slightly, but I kept my voice steady. “You don’t understand, Victor. The firm collapsed. I was laid off, and the jobs I’m getting now—well, they’re peanuts.”
“Your problems don’t matter!” he barked. “You promised to pay me back in a month. Three years have passed. I’m not a charity.”
Laura squeezed my hand under the table, a small gesture that steadied me. I exhaled deeply and tried once more: “I’ll pay you back, I swear. Just give me time. And what about the flat? Where will we go?”
“It’s your problem,” he snarled, pushing off the table. “You should’ve thought twice before borrowing money. I’m not your friend. That flat was bought with my life savings—on my pension. Not for the likes of you.”
“Dad!” Laura stood, her eyes brimming with tears. “You can’t treat him like this! Stephen worked his whole life for us to make it work when things went down!”
“I don’t care about your dramas,” he said, his voice icy. “I paid rent, didn’t I? Then, fine—get out. I grew up in barracks, I slept in communal housing. But now, I’ve had it with nobodies expecting handouts.”
The slam of the door left a silence heavy as the broken picture frame on the shelf—a wedding photo of Laura and me, now split by a crack down the glass. I picked it up, face-down, before anyone could see the split.
“Let me speak to him,” Laura urged, picking up the shards. “When he calms down.”
“No point. He’s right. I took money I couldn’t pay back.”
“You didn’t do it on purpose!” she argued. “None of us saw the firm collapsing!”
I shook my head and walked out. Explaining the mess we’d fallen into to Victor’s rigid, no-nonsense mind was pointless. He didn’t forgive mistakes—especially financial ones.
I’d met Laura at a company party she was organizing for her accounting job. She was witty, sharp, and immediately, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We married within six months, and I moved into the flat Victor had bought for her with his savings. A retired colonel, he lived by a code: duty, honor, and never bending. Once that line was crossed, there was no mercy.
At first, he tolerate me. He saw I was working hard, didn’t miss a meal, and looked after Laura. But it all changed when I borrowed his money to start a project.
“Talk to him tonight,” Laura said later, resting her head on my chest. “He’s old school. To him, a promise is life or death.”
“I know,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “But he won’t listen. Thinks I wasted the money on pubs or the racetrack.”
“Fears we’ll leave him, is all,” she whispered. “He raised me alone. My mother passed. He’s terrified I’d marry some deadbeat.”
“And I fit the bill nicely,” I muttered.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said, kissing my cheek. “We’ll sort it. I have savings, and my job’s stable. We can rent a room until we get back on our feet.”
I hugged her, but the thought of dragging her into this mess gnawed at me. I couldn’t let her save me—it’d be the final proof to Victor that I was a failure. I had to fix this myself.
The next morning, I found a job lead from an old colleague, Andrew. He’d gone into small business after our firm collapsed. We met in a café in Manchester.
“Glad you’re here,” he said, shaking my hand. “Remember that last project for the printers? I snapped up some equipment when the old company liquidated. Need someone who knows the machines. You were the best I’ve worked with.”
“What kind of deal?” I asked.
“Percentage of each order to start. If things take off, we’ll talk salary.”
Not perfect—no security or steady checks—but it was a start. I accepted on the spot.
That night, I told Laura. “Andrew’s got a job. We’re going into business together.”
“That’s brilliant!” she beamed, but her smile faded. “You trust him? After everything with the firm?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Gotta trust someone.”
Victor walked in just as I set down my tea. He pulled a yogurt from the fridge and said, “Found your money yet? No? Then no news here.”
I tried to explain, but he cut me off: “I’ve heard this before. All these ‘promises.’ My time’s up. Leave next week or I’ll go to the housing office.”
I clenched my fists. “I’ll move out next weekend. I’ve found a place.”
It was a lie. But I couldn’t stay another day.
That night, Laura demanded to know, “You said we found a flat. When?”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “It’s time to stop begging for his approval.”
We spent the night planning to split the cheapest room in the suburbs. Laura’s steady income could stretch barely enough, but it’d be better than Victor’s daily scorn.
The next week was hell. Andrew’s business ran smoothly, but work was erratic and expenses were crushing. By the end of the month, I’d earned just a third of what I owed.
“Hang in there,” he said. “This is just the start.”
But Victor’s patience had snaps. One evening, he pulled me aside: “Your time’s up, Thompson. I’m handing it over to the housing authority.”
“I found us a place,” I said, lying again.
“Good. You’re not staying here, freeloading off my hard-earned money.”
Laura overheard and begged, “Dad, give him another chance!”
“No,” I said. “This ends with me.”
The next night, I worked until the early hours. Andrew offered a big job that could turn things around. Just as we were finishing, the neighbor called. “Stephen, come quick—Victor collapsed! The ambulance is here!”
I sprinted, heart pounding. When I got to the flat, paramedics were already there. Laura stood in the hallway, tearful.
“He had a heart attack,” she said. “If I hadn’t come home earlier…”
They took him to the hospital. I dropped everything, hopping between the clinic and our apartment, bringing his meds and files.
“I caused this,” I muttered.
“No,” she said. “He’s been sick for years. He stopped taking his pills to save money—on this flat, on you.”
That hit harder than I expected.
Three days later, Victor was out of critical care. Laura stayed with him, while I worked harder than ever. Andrew offered a small advance—just enough to buy his medication and the recommended diet.
By then, the guilt had worn off. Victor was better but still looked the same, sharp and unyielding, even weakened by the attack.
The first evening I visited him, he just nodded. “Here to gloat, I bet. Squeak out a ‘Thanks, you old fool’ and leave?”
I set a fruit basket on his table. “I’m not. I brought the first payment.”
He glanced at the envelope I placed beside the fruit. “You expect me to thank you?”
“I’ll work nights. Shifts. Whatever it takes.”
He studied me for a while. “Olga kept telling me how much you’ve done. Even that job, trying to fix this.”
“I won’t let her down.”
He grunted. “We’ll see. And where are you staying? Laura keeps telling me she’s with a friend. Not buying it.”
I hesitated. “Nowhere. I’m sleeping at the workshop, and Laura’s splitting a room.”
He scowled. “You call that looking after her?”
“I’ve been working to pay you back!”
A beat of silence. Then he did something I never expected—grabbed the envelope and handed it back.
“Keep it. Rent a decent place first.”
“But…”
“No buts. My daughter won’t be living in someone else’s living room. Got it?”
I took it, stunned. “Thank you, Victor.”
“As long as you don’t fail her again,” he growled. “Or I’ll make sure that heart attack looks like a holiday.”
After his release, he insisted we move back into the flat. I resisted, but Laura’s joy at the reconciliation was too much to deny.
With Andrew’s business growing, I began repaying him. One day, he surprised me:
“Stephen, how about we skip the percentages? I’ll help you open a shop. My mate’s got a unit in the industrial estate. Cheap to rent.”
“Serious?”
“Why not? I’m bored on the pension anyway.”
Our partnership began—full of clashes, but slowly, we learned to respect each other. Victor kept the books, and I handled the clients.
One night, after closing, he said, “You’re not the failure I thought you were. Like the way you handle people.”
I almost dropped my keys. “Thanks, Victor.”
He clapped me on the back. “Still haven’t paid me back.”
“I will. You know it.”
“Good. Because I’m still not the forgiving type.”
But as we walked out, I smiled. After the heart attack, he’d learned one lesson: sometimes, forgiveness is strength, not weakness.
Today, we’re a team—old soldier and young entrepreneur, polar opposites who found common ground. The fights remain, but now we share more than just this family. We share trust.