Stories About Fathers Novels & Stories

My father was a judge, but he fell in love with a killer. His lover ran my grandparents down with her car. He found her not guilty in court. At the time, his power was absolute. No one dared to go against him. That homewrecker lived in luxury and got whatever she asked for. My mother lost both her parents, suffered betrayal, and was driven mad by everyone's ridicule. Thirty years passed. I fought with everything I had and became a Supreme Court justice. During graduation season, I sat on the interview panel as presiding justice. Across from me was a poised, immaculate young woman. She was the finest graduate the law school had produced this year. Looking at that familiar face, I glanced

Especially if the heavy, sick feeling in my gut is right. I know deep down that there is only one explanation. The legends of the Seven are little known, but well documented if one knows where to look. My father was told the stories by his father, and my grandfather was told the same tales by his father, and that is how it was for generations. Then, when I was maybe seven or eight years old, my father returned from the longest absence in my memory.

“I’m so proud of you both. I got a front-row seat when it came to watching your journey with her. It began before you even took your first breath. I wasn’t surprised when Faye confirmed that you’d become mates. Your mother and I are incredibly proud of the young men that you are. The woman has been your lives since the beginning. I know that your mateship has already been tested, but you both have been the mates that she has needed every step of the way. I’ve honestly never seen a love more pure than yours and can’t wait to watch as you live your lives together. I love you both and am incredibly fucking proud to be your father.” A single tear escaped his eyes. That had both of us feeling emo

I felt like my father would tell me something I didn’t know, he went over everything he knew, “You know I’m sure Steve would be better to answer your questions, I’m only your dad dear, you tell me the limited amount of stuff. But I brought you these.” I looked over and he had a pile of letters in envelopes from the jail. I grabbed them and looked through them quickly. My father watched me,

" Philip ends his story. Han was still silent, trying to dive into the past story between his father and grandfather. "Now the wounds are back Han, your grandfather never forgot them, he wants them back. Father doesn't want to see those who have made us lose future family members, who have made your grandmother sick. Who have hurt father because he is not willing his father to be with father. " "Father, I have met them," said Han after his father finished his story. "Father knows," Philip replied.

Her hands clutched my clothes desperately, fingers digging into fabric as if she could anchor me to the floor if she held tight enough. “I will come back,” I whispered into her hair. It was a lie. But it was all I had. They came that night. Three men. Heavy boots. Dark jackets. The kind of men who did not look around when they entered a room because they already owned it. My father opened the door without argument. My mother screamed my name. One of the men grabbed my arm. His grip was firm, practiced. I did not fight. Fighting was what children did when they believed rescue was possible.

Adrian wasn’t just the sharp, guarded businessman I’d first met; he was someone with his own scars, his own battles. --- We spent the next few hours talking, our words filling the spaces that had once been occupied by silence. Adrian told me about his childhood, the struggles of growing up under the shadow of a father who demanded perfection. He spoke of his mother, a kind but fragile woman who had been his anchor until her untimely death. In turn, I shared fragments of my own story—my mother’s unwavering strength, the years of scraping by, and the ache of growing up without knowing the truth about my father.

“His father… Um, I don’t know if I told you, but we executed him. But the things he told us… About Maverick too. Like, um… His father did some fucked up things, Mar. Like things that were done to my dad too.” I nodded, “I know.” “I’m not saying it’s an excuse, but…” I sighed. Maverick had shared some. He told stories about how his father beat him in the same way he shared stories about any other thing. They just came up, like he doesn’t even realize something like that was shocking to others. Or maybe he doesn’t care what people find shocking. We stared at each other for a while. Not uncomfortably, just… waiting for the first person to speak.

They had cheese and bread to fill themselves up, a typical poor-man’s meal, and his father’s cheesy laugh and large body was enough to shelter under the baking summer sun. At home, his father was a very different man. He is a very committed reader while daily tending to their crops and other flora. When he’s on the road, however, he opens like a book. Telling stories like how a traveler gathers his stories and shares them with others. “Hey bud, I have something to tell you…” He would start before sliding into stories which included myths and monsters. He will not remember these stories, but he will remember the way his father shares them. The words flow as smooth as silk dangling down his sk

The top buttons of my shirt undone enough to expose the swell of her breasts. “From Dad’s side. His mum was Lebanese. Adija Roshid. But Dad never knew his father.” Then her gaze dropped. “Perhaps that was why he never learned how to be a good father.” Something cold moved through me, instantly. Like ice slipping between my ribs. Memories of my own father settled ugly and sharp inside me. “Being a good father isn’t about having your father,” I said, my voice tighter than I intended. “Sometimes some people just can’t ever be good fathers.”