A Sad Story
Not my usual funny tale, but some of the stories on here are so moving, I thought I'd share mine. It's about the worst father I have ever, ever heard of. And it does upset me to type it, but here goes.

Now, my parents, though divorced, are great - they'd do anything for me, and I'd do anything for them. I love them unconditionally. My cousin, Victoria, didn't have that blessing, unfortunately.

My cousin is the daughter of my beloved Aunty May. Back in the 70s, she was a singer in the clubs, all sequins and wigs, she was a gorgeous woman with an amazing voice and a great Yorkshire personality. She was my dad's best friend.

May married young, and had a daughter, Victoria. The marriage crumbled, and she remarried when Victoria was only a few years old. She married Jeff. Jeff was, to put it nicely, a twat. He would rule the house with his booming voice and ludicrous rules (no friends in the house, supervised family visits only, no talking loudly or playing near him, etc). Though to our knowledge he was never violent, he wore poor May and Victoria down and eventually the house which was once a haven for our (huge) family and friends became quiet and May became reserved. We all thought she would leave him when Victoria was sixteen, as she didn't want her to be moved yet again.

Sadly, Aunty May started to get headaches, bad headaches. The doctor gave her strong painkillers and advised her to rest. By the time they found the brain tumour, cancer was scattered like pepper through her head. She was dying.

What did Jeff do? He propped her up in bed on her own, sent Victoria out, and proceeded to convert Victoria's bedroom into a study, as he was adamant she would be shipped back to her biological father (who she barely knew) when her mother died. May sat in bed, alone, for most of the day, with her crippling headache, whilst Jeff hammered and drilled and sawed. The worst part was, he had left a full length mirror facing her. She watched herself lose stones in weight, lose all her hair, and go grey with illness. Visits were supervised, of course. One day, my dad carried May down to the lounge for a change. He said it was like carrying a doll, she was so light. Jeff hadn't been giving her water, or tea, or food. As she sat on the sofa and tried to talk, Victoria came in from school, she was around fifteen. My dad sent her into the lounge and made the tea. As he carried the tea into the lounge, the sight of his dying sister hugging her daugter broke his heart. That was twenty years ago, and he still cries at the thought of it.

Jeff walked into the room and looked at them. 'She's not long to go', he stated fairly cheerfully, 'she'll be dead by Christmas'. My dad, who normally would have gone understandably mental, knew May couldn't cope with any upset, so he stayed calm and just told her to ignore him.

The next day, May slipped into a coma and was taken into respite care. My dad and the family visited her, and Jeff was there, giving them all smug, evil looks. They stayed only for about twenty minutes, and as they left my dad stroked her hair and said 'we'll come and see you tomorrow, love'.

She died a few hours later.

Victoria was removed from the house within hours, and Jeff's previously unmentioned lady friend moved in within a matter of weeks. He was seen laughing and joking even before May's funeral.

A few years ago, my family heard through friends that, through some amazingly apt twist of fate, that Jeff had terminal brain cancer. He died in agony a few months later. Alone.

I have never seen or heard so many people laugh and smile at hearing a man is dead. But by God, that scumbag deserved every ounce of pain he got, and then some.
(Northern Lovely, Tue 21 Aug 2007, 12:58, Reply)