Tell Them Like It Is

If you recall, Greenwood offered some sage advice when it came to breaking the news to the lads:

The Relationship

I reckon my relationship with the boys is solid. Kerry’s too. Not long ago, they told her that while she’s not their mum, they very much see her as their step-mum. Might sound small, but for them to say it unprompted meant a hell of a lot to both of us.

When they were adjusting to living between two homes, we had early chats about routines, school, and not flipping their lives upside down. We made a plan, stuck to it, then changed it—as these things do, it morphed. It’s still morphing.

These days, it goes something like this: Friday nights, they rock up, get fed—usually at a restaurant of their choosing—retire to their room, and vanish into the wormhole of screens and teenagedom. They re-emerge the next morning after heavy cajoling, smash a “breakfast of champions,” and then Foxtrot Oscar off to whatever teenage agenda they’re following.

We agreed: if they miss one weekend, they have to make the next. Occasionally, they miss two. But they’re quick to clarify—it’s not about us. And truthfully, I believe them. It’s not disinterest, it’s that they’re building their own wee lives.

Time to Tell Them

Everything was happening fast—still is. I realised I had to tell them. If we followed the usual routine, I'd have chemo under my belt by the next visit, and could very well be looking (and feeling) like absolute shit.

So I called. Told them I had news to share. Insisted they come over.

They arrived, sulking like the little shites they can be—deeply outraged that I dared interrupt their sacred school holidays with a visit to Dad’s.

We sat down. I opened up. I cried. They both cried, in their own ways—each true to their character. I didn’t sugarcoat it. I gave them the whole jing-bang.

Carter’s first words were: “Are you in pain, Dad?”Miles followed with: “How did you get it?”

Kerry was incredible—comforting them both, steady as ever. I’m beyond grateful for that.

We cried a bit more, talked about the future, and tried to normalise the chaos as best we could.

The Talk

I grew up in a home where, had this happened when I was 14 or 16½, I might not have been told at all. Either you’re too young or just good old-fashioned, we don't talk about these things.

I’ve always made it a point to speak to the boys like peers—age-appropriate honesty. We’ve talked about things my parents still haven’t said out loud. I want them to hear my perspective, but form their own. Think critically. Question everything. Seek truth, not just accept it because someone says so.

So I gave them the facts. Straight-up. And maybe I nailed it. Or maybe I totally bamboozled them.

After a few rounds of questions, they seemed... settled. Or maybe just maxed out. Hard to tell.

Miles looked at me and asked: “Where are we going for dinner, Dad?”

Too funny.

We ate. Nothing dramatic. Then they choofed off—back to screens, scooters, and teenage things.

The Gap

I haven’t seen them now for three weeks.

• Weekend 1 after chemo: We’d already agreed they’d skip it, even though it was Miles’ birthday. In hindsight, we should’ve gone ahead.

• Weekend 2: I wasn’t crash hot.

• Last weekend: Someone in their house had an infection. We played it safe—they stayed away.

I’m hanging out to see them next weekend.

Miles has been in touch more. He’s been calling—unprompted—which he’s never really done. He asks how I’m feeling. He genuinely seems concerned.

Carter? Classic elusive teenager. Rarely answers the phone. But when we do connect, the concern’s there. Understated, but real.

They Get It

They know this is serious. And they know I’ll always tell them like it is.