I was eight years old when my mum left home. She walked to the corner, hailed a cab, and never came back. My brother was five. Everything changed after that. Dad began doing things he’d never done before: waking up early to cook breakfast, learning how to do laundry, ironing school uniforms, fumbling through brushing our hair before we left for school. I watched him misjudge rice portions, burn meals, forget to separate whites from coloured clothes in the wash. But somehow we never went without. He came home tired from work and helped with homework, signed our exercise books, and made lunchboxes for the next day.
Mum never came to visit. Dad never brought another woman home, never introduced anyone as his partner. We knew he went out and sometimes got back late, but his personal life stayed outside our walls. There was only me and my brother. I never heard him say he’d fallen in love again. His routine was work, come home, cook, wash, sleep, repeat.
On weekends he took us to the park, the river, the shopping centre—even if it was just to window-shop. He learnt how to braid hair, sew on buttons, and make packed lunches. When we needed costumes for school plays, he fashioned them from cardboard and old fabric. He never complained. Never said, “This isn’t my job.”
A year ago, Dad passed away—it happened quickly, with no chance for long goodbyes. While sorting through his things, I found old notebooks: lists of household expenses, important dates, reminders like “pay the school fee,” “buy shoes,” “take the girl to the doctor.” No love letters, no photos with another woman, no sign of a romantic life. Just the traces of a man who lived for his children.
Since he’s been gone, one question won’t leave me alone: Was he happy? My mum left to find her own happiness. Dad stayed and, it seemed, gave up his own. He never rebuilt a family. Never had a home with a partner. Never again became a priority for anyone but us.
Now I realise what an incredible father I had. But I also see that he was a man who stayed alone so that we wouldn’t be. And that weighs heavy. Because now he’s gone, I wonder if he ever received the love he deserved. I was eight years old when my mother left our home. She walked to the end of the street, got into a taxi
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