I looked sadly at the child in front of me. He was, I must admit, a disappointment. This was in no way my fault.
"Dad," he said, "can I have a cigarette?"
"No," I replied, putting the packet back into my pocket and lighting up. "You're too young. Besides, I don't have any."
"But dad, I'm 22. Besides, I just saw you holding some. You're smoking one now."
"No," I replied again. "I don't touch the things. It's a lie your mother told you. She's a bad person."
"I wish you wouldn't talk about her like that," He replied.
"Look!" I addressed him, "I have no idea who you are. You just followed me off the train. You're not my son. I'm very sorry."
However, there was nothing I could do. I looked after the boy for several more years, until he decided he wanted to teach and went to University. He kept in regular contact, but he recently found out I really wasn't his father. Since then, we have grown more distant.
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