As a child, I was always curious about who my father was. I grew up in a boarding school, and over the years, his absence simply became normal. At fourteen, I met the man who would later become the father of my own children, and at that time, I never felt the urge to search for my father. Life just carried on.
Some years later, after our separation, circumstancesalmost by accident, reallyled me back to that old, unanswered question. I run my own business and one day, a client walked in. We started chatting, the conversation flowing easily, and for some reason I confided that Id never actually met my father. He offered to help, and before long wed tracked my father down to a small village in the English countryside where hed lived all his life.
The day I finally met him, words failed me. My chest ached with joy that felt endless. I began building dreams around himmaking plans, travelling together, keeping in touch every day, showering him with little gifts. I bought him new clothes, spoiled him, took him places; I was happy to pay for everything, regardless of whether he had a penny to his name. Seeing him neglected, lonely, defeated, I felt a desperate need to make up for all the lost years.
Hed tell me how alone he feltthat he had children in the village, but they refused to let him have any sort of companion, firmly believing that any woman who came near was only after his money. I gently pressed him to introduce me to the lady he claimed to love, and eventually, he did. She was a modest, hard-working woman, and her quiet care spoke volumes about her character. Yet, my fathers children wanted nothing to do with her. They insulted her, called the police, and treated her dreadfully at every opportunity.
When I asked her why they did this, she told memy father owns several cottages, some land, and has a tidy sum in the bank. His children are terrified that someone else will swoop in and take it all.
Thats when the rumours began. People said I had shown up simply to snatch everything away. I didnt even have his surname. But he insistedpressured me, reallyto take it. I resisted, wanting no trouble, but he said it was his wish, so I finally agreed. That decision made everything worse. The whispers intensified. The rifts grew wider.
Yet my relationship with his partner only grew stronger. Eventually, I urged them to marry quietly, and they did. The rest of the family were lividat him and at me. I defended him, insisting he had every right to chase his own happiness. Their marriage had its ups and downs, but one day, now husband and wife, I invited them on a trip together. It was the first time his wife joined us; usually, I travelled alone with my father. During the trip, she asked how much I would contribute to the expenses. I told her nothingwhenever I travelled with him, I always paid for everything.
Then she said something that completely shook my world: things werent at all as Id always thought. My father was never short of money, she explainedhis children tightly managed his finances, forbidding him to spend on himself, insisting he wear old clothes and go without simple joys. I had always assumed he was hard up, seeing him live in a half-finished cottage, always looking deprivedbut, in reality, he was well off, just not allowed to access his own funds.
After that revelation, I encouraged him to spend on himself, to enjoy the fruits of his labour. But he always replied, My children wont allow it. Once he married, his new wife insisted he contribute to the home, to their meals, for the daily costs. But every time she asked, hed lose his temper. After much arguing, he would give in, but it never came easily. She confided in me, and I felt she was completely justified.
One afternoon, while we were all together, his wife asked if he might buy lunch for her father. His reaction stunned ushe snapped, told her she should pay, complained that it was always the same, and started a row. I stood up for her. I asked him if hed want my husband to refuse to feed my father. I told him he was being unfair to the woman who managed his home, cooked his meals, washed his clothes, and stood by him. He replied he was exhausted, always having to hand over money for the house.
Then, slowly, the painful truth dawned: my father was generous with his children, who never cared for him and only called when they needed cash, but kept every penny from the woman who devoted her days to looking after him.
In the end, their marriage fell apart. These days, he lives alone. Allegedly, one daughter looks after him but everyone knows its he who supports her, her husband, and their children. The others ring up, bark instructions, and he dutifully transfers them money without batting an eye. The woman who stood by him, he always found a reason to deny.
Im not the same with him anymore. I still love himjust not in the way I did before. I no longer invite him on trips; we barely speak. If I dont ring, the phone never rings at all. I cannot go back to who I was. Theres an ache in admitting itafter all, finding him felt like a dream come true. Now its as if he no longer exists at all.
