My name is Edith, Im 68 years old, and for many years I believed Id done the very best I could for my children. But these days, they seem to see things rather differently.
I was a single father, though it was never by choice. My wife left one ordinary afternoon and never came back. There was no goodbye, no explanation. She simply vanished, leaving me to raise our children on my own. Later, through neighbours whispers, I pieced together the truthshe had gone off with another man. I never heard a word from her, not even to look her children in the eye. Its as if she vanished from our lives completely.
Back then, my children were just six and four. So young, so dependent, and I was thrown into it all alone. I didnt have any family to call upon. I come from a poor, forgotten bit of Manchesterone of those places where you leave in hope of a better life, only to find yourself far from any safety net, with no one to turn to when the bottom falls out.
My children have never blamed me for not having food on the table or a roof over their heads. I tried my hardest to make sure they never went without the basics. Instead, its the emotions they feel were missingthey hold me to account for what I failed to give them within.
I was a strict father. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. Id grown up believing that love is shown through sacrifices, not words; with discipline, not cuddles. To keep us afloat, I worked at a textiles factory. I chose it because it meant I could be with them in the afternoonsmake sure theyd eaten, keep them safe. And when dusk gathered, Id go out selling pies on the streets, fighting asleep on my feet, driven by need.
Thats how I kept us going: double shifts, never stopping, always tired. I was there physically, but I see now that emotionally, I was missing far more than I should have been. Some days, Id come home irritable, too exhausted to listen to childish stories. If they cried, Id tell them not to exaggerate. When they needed attention, Id answer with orders. When they slipped up, I corrected more than I ever comforted.
I wasnt a gentle father. I was dependable but distant.
There was a time when everything fell apart. We rented a tiny flathardly more than somewhere to sleep. With no mother and only my income coming in, the money was never enough. Sometimes, I had to choose: pay the rent or buy food. I always chose to feed my children. But I fell behind on the rentone month, then the nextuntil, one day, we were evicted.
I can recall that day as if it had just happened. I had nowhere to take them. Two little ones and a couple of bagswe slept on a neighbours sitting room floor that night. I was grateful just not to be in the street. They were far too young to really grasp it all, but I understood every bitthe shame, fear, humiliation, and the sheer exhaustion. The neighbours, seeing how rough things were, pooled together a bit of money so we could move into an even smaller room in an old building with a shared yard. It was cramped, but at least we felt safe.
My children remember shouting, where I remember only weariness. They remember distance, where I recall the sheer will to make it through. They remember fear, while I remember fighting not to fall apart. Still, I raised them. They went to school. Finished their studies. Now, as adults, they have their own families, a future ahead.
Lately, they look at me differently. They ask why I never asked them how they really felt. Why I didnt stand up for them when someone hurt them. Why everything always seemed more important than they were.
You took care of us, Dad, but you never hugged us, one of them said to me once. That line broke me. It wasnt for lack of loveit was for lack of know-how. Id never been taught how to love gently. I was raised to survive, not to feel.
As the years went by, they started to drift away. They dont visit often. Of course, they have their own families and responsibilities, and they say theyre busyand I do believe them, but I know that isnt all of it. One day, without realising how much it stung, both my sons said the same thing: that their wives are nothing like me. More patient, more affectionate, more present with the children. They werent spiteful about it; it was just a statement of fact. But I felt it as a silent judgmentas if they were saying theyve chosen for their own children what they never had from me.
And I realised: they dont just judge me as a father from the past, but compare me to the mothers now alongside them. Maybe its truelife made me bitter, hardened me too soon, left tiredness etched in my voice and movements.
Now, my sons are my judges, because at last they have words for what they once swallowed down in silence. I listen, even when it hurts, even when it forces me to face myself, even when it makes me feel painfully small.
I dont write this to excuse myself. Yes, I was a father who didnt know how to show tenderness. Yes, I made mistakes. I see that now, even if its late. But I also know this: I did all I could with the man I was then. I loved as best as I knew how. No one can give what theyve never had themselves.
Maybe one day theyll see the whole of me, not just my shortcomings. Maybe not. Being a parent doesnt mean being perfect; it means loving, even when you dont know quite how to do it right.
And though my sons may look at me now as their judge, I hope God will look upon me as a fatherwith mercy, with truth, and with a love that doesnt condemn, but heals. Thats the lesson Im left with: loving isnt about having it all figured out, its simply about doing your best, even when you never learned how.
