Even now, I sometimes find myself waking up in the darkness, wondering just how my father managed to take absolutely everything from us.
I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a modest but well-kept house somewhere on the edge of Oxford comfortable furniture, a fridge stocked up on shopping days, and bills nearly always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my biggest worry was scraping together enough pocket money for a pair of trainers Id been eyeing for weeks.
Everything started shifting when my dad began coming home later and later. Hed let himself in without a greeting, toss his keys onto the table, and head straight for his room, phone clutched tightly. Mum would call after him:
Late again, are we? Do you reckon this house runs itself?
He always replied dryly:
Leave me alone, Im knackered.
Id listen from my room, headphones pressed over my ears, pretending the world outside wasnt changing.
One evening, I caught him whispering into his mobile in the back garden. His laughter was hollow, saying things like, Almost sorted, and Dont worry, Ill handle it. When he saw me, he ended the call immediately. Something churned in my gut, but I kept silent.
The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school to find the suitcase open across his bed. Mum stood in the doorway, eyes red and swollen. I asked:
Wheres he going?
He didnt even look at me, just muttered:
Ill be gone for a while.
Mum shouted after him:
A while with who? Tell the truth, for once!
Thats when he snapped:
Im leaving for another woman. Ive had enough of this life!
I burst into tears and pleaded:
What about me? And my school? And our home?
All he said was:
Youll manage.
He stuffed papers from the desk drawer into his coat, grabbed his wallet, and left, ignoring us both.
That night, Mum tried to withdraw money from her bank card at the cash machine, but it was blocked. The next day, the bank told her the account was emptied; hed drained everything theyd saved. On top of it, we learnt hed left two months bills unpaid and taken out a loan, listing Mum as guarantor without her knowing.
I remember Mum hunched at the kitchen table, poring over receipts with an old calculator, crying and repeating:
Its never enough… Its never enough…
I did my best to help figure out the bills, but I barely understood half of what was going on.
Within a week, our broadband was cut, and soon after, the electricity was threatened. Mum started cleaning for other people. I began selling sweets at school, too ashamed to stand in the corridor with my carrier bag of chocolates, doing it because even necessities were scarce at home.
There was a day I opened our fridge and found only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat alone in the kitchen and cried. That evening, dinner was plain white rice. Nothing else. Mum kept apologising for not being able to give me what she used to.
Months later, a photo popped up on Facebook: Dad and that woman, raising glasses of wine at a restaurant. My hands shook. I messaged him:
Dad, I need money for school supplies.
He replied:
I cant support two families.
That was the last time we spoke.
He never called again. He never asked if I finished school, if I was ill, or if I needed anything. He just disappeared.
Now I work, pay my own way, and help Mum as best as I can. But the wound is still raw. Not just for the money for the abandonment, the cold way he walked out and let us sink, continuing his life as if we never existed.
And yet, so many nights, I wake up gasping, the same unanswerable question stuck fast in my chest:
How do you go on when your own father takes everything and leaves you scrambling to survive, before you’re even grown?
