A Letter to the Father Who Left When I Was Just Five
It’s been over forty years now. I’m forty-seven. I have a family, children, a good job—everything you’d think would bring happiness. Yet there’s a shard from the past that still cuts deep. A single letter, buried at the bottom of a drawer full of memories, one I’ll never dare to send. Because the man it’s meant for doesn’t deserve it. This letter is for my father. The one who walked out of our lives one day and never came back.
You left when I was five. Just vanished. No goodbye, no explanation, not even a postcard. Back then, I didn’t understand. Mum just stopped crying at night and grew quieter. And I—I started waiting. First every day, then on birthdays and holidays, then for no reason at all. I waited for you to return. To walk through the door. To hold me. To say, “Sweetheart, I’m here.” But you never did.
People say boys struggle more when a father leaves. But I was a girl. And it broke me. I envied my friends whose dads picked them up from nursery—lifting them onto their shoulders, sweets in hand, all smiles. And me? I stood to the side, watching them disappear together beyond the gates.
You were never much of a father, even when you still lived with us. I don’t remember trips to the cinema, you teaching me to ride a bike, or reading bedtime stories. No family dinners, no games, not a single photo where we looked happy.
You were always gone. Business trips, mates, work… To me, “business trip” sounded like some magical place where you were happy because no one was waiting for you there.
When you and Mum divorced, the house just grew quieter. The smell of your cigarettes faded, your aftershave no longer sat on the shelf. That was it. You left, but in truth, you were never really there.
Mum never remarried. Though she could have. She gave everything to me. Worked herself raw, sewing late into the night, taking extra jobs. She raised me alone. Without help, without complaint. And you? Once a month, you’d appear at the door—silently handing over money before walking away. You never stepped inside. Never even looked at me.
One day stands out. I got a new school uniform—a blue dress with a neat collar, slightly flared. I spun in front of the mirror, imagining walking into school while everyone said, “What a lovely girl!” I dreamed of you seeing it.
When the doorbell rang, I scrambled to put it on. Thought it was you. Wanted to show you. Wanted to hear, “You’ve grown up so much.” But when I ran into the hallway, all I saw was the door closing behind you. You left. Quickly. Like always. Probably rushing off—to someone or something more important than your daughter in her new school dress. That was the first time I truly sobbed.
Later, I learned you’d always wanted a son. That even before me, you’d only had girls. I suppose I didn’t fit either. You didn’t even choose my name. Maybe if I’d been a boy, you’d have stayed. A stupid thought, but it haunted me for years.
I grew up, hardening myself to fill the void. Teen rebellion, first cigarette, nights out… Mum endured it, cried, but never gave up. Thank God her love was enough.
After my first year at uni, I started working. Studied by day, typed technical translations at night on an old typewriter. Computers were a luxury. I saved for my own flat. Wanted to prove I could make it. Alone. Without you.
When I finally moved out, Mum said with pride, “Emily’s on her own now. Pays her own way.” But you never called. Never asked.
I graduated. Built a career. Became a department head. Bought a car, then a flat. All with one thought: *What if you come back, see me, say, “I’m proud of you”?* I even chose my husband as if silently asking, *Would Dad approve?*
Once, fate brought us face to face. I had to hand you some papers. I prepped like it was a first date—nervous, picking my outfit, rehearsing words. And you? You just took the folder and asked, “Is that all?” No hug. No glance. Not a single kind word. I’ve never felt so cold.
I walked out, climbed into my car, and cried. Hard. Like a child. But then—something shifted. Like a shard of glass had fallen from my heart, sharp and cutting. In that moment, I let go.
I realised you were just a passerby in my life. A ghost. A shadow. No matter how hard I tried to earn your love, you couldn’t give it. I stopped asking why. Stopped waiting.
You taught me so much. Not directly. But because of you, I grew strong. Learned to fight for everything myself. And whatever they say, I’m grateful. For knowing how to love. For having a good man beside me. For my children never knowing what it means to live without a father.
And you know what? I’ve forgiven you. Because I’ve learned not to expect love from those who can’t give it. You’re not a father. You’re just the man who walked away. But me? I’m the one who stayed. Who grew up. And won.