Even now, some nights I still wake up and wonder: when did my dad manage to take everything from us? I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but tidy house—there was furniture, the fridge was full on shopping days, and the bills were almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were passing maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. It all began to change when my dad started coming home later and later, never greeting anyone, tossing his keys onto the table and heading straight to his room with his mobile in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you think this house runs itself?” And he’d reply dryly, “Leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to it all from my room with headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him talking on his phone outside in the garden, laughing quietly and saying things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” When he saw me, he hung up straight away. I felt a strange knot in my stomach but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw an open suitcase on the bed. Mum was standing at the bedroom door, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted, “A while with who? Tell the truth!” He snapped back, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I cried and asked, “What about me? My school? Our house?” He just replied, “You’ll be fine.” He packed his suitcase, grabbed the documents from the drawer, took his wallet, and walked out without saying goodbye. That evening, Mum tried to withdraw money from the cash machine and her card was blocked. The next day, the bank told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they had saved together. We also learned he’d left two months of bills unpaid and had taken out a loan without telling anyone, putting my mum down as guarantor. I remember Mum sitting at the table, checking receipts on an old calculator, crying, saying, “There’s just not enough… not enough for anything.” I tried helping her sort out the bills, but I didn’t understand half of what was going on. A week later the internet was cut off, and soon after, nearly the electricity too. Mum started looking for work—cleaning houses. I started selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing at break with my bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because we barely had enough for the essentials at home. There was a day I opened the fridge and saw only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat in the kitchen and cried alone. That evening we had plain rice for dinner, nothing else. Mum kept apologising that she couldn’t give me what she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook—Dad and that woman in a restaurant, raising glasses of wine. My hands shook. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that he never called. Never asked if I graduated, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He just disappeared. Today I work, pay my own way and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of the money, but because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us struggling and carried on with his life as if nothing had happened. And even now, many nights I wake with the same question weighing on my chest: How do you survive when your own father takes everything and leaves you to figure out how to get through life while you’re still just a kid?

Even now, there are nights I wake in darkness, my mind wandering backwondering how my father managed to take everything from us.

I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a modest, yet tidy house on the outskirts of Norwich. It wasn’t grand, but we had solid furniture, the fridge was full on grocery days, and the bills were nearly always settled on time. I was in Year 10 at school, fretting only over passing maths and saving up pocket money for a pair of trainers I dearly wanted.

Then things began to shift. My father started coming home later and later. He’d stride in wordlessly, toss his keys onto the hall table, and disappear straight into his room clutching his mobile. My mother would call after him:
Back late again? Do you think this house runs itself?
And he’d reply, with a blank voice:
Leave me be, I’m knackered.

I listened to their exchanges from my room, headphones clamped over my ears, pretending nothing was amiss.

One evening, I happened to glimpse him in the garden, speaking on the phone. He was chuckling quietly, saying things like Its nearly sorted and Dont worry, Ill handle it. The moment he saw me, he hung up. A strange feeling settled in my stomach, but I kept silent.

The day he left was a Friday. I returned home from school and found his suitcase open on the bed. My mother stood by the bedroom door, eyes red from crying. I asked:
Wheres he off to?
He didn’t even look at me, just said:
Ill be away for a while.

My mother snapped:
A whilewith whom? Just tell the truth!
He exploded, replying:
Im leaving with another woman. Ive had enough of this life!

I burst into tears and pleaded:
And me? My school? Our home?
He merely shrugged:
Youll manage.

He packed his suitcase, grabbed the papers from the drawer, took his wallet, and leftno goodbye.

That night, Mum tried to withdraw some cash at the ATM, only to find her card blocked. Next day, she went to the bank and was told the account was empty. Hed taken every pound theyd put aside. We soon learnt hed left two months bills unpaid, and had even taken out a loan with Mum as guarantor, without telling her.

I still remember Mum sitting at the kitchen table with an old calculator, flicking through receipts, tears streaming down her cheeks, muttering:
Its not enough its just not enough

I tried to help tally up the bills, but I was losthalf of it made no sense to me.

A week later, our internet stopped working, closely followed by nearly losing the electricity. Mum started searching for work, cleaning whatever houses she could. I began selling sweets at school. I felt embarrassed standing at break with a tatty bag of chocolates, but I did it, because we barely had enough for basic necessities at home.

There was a day I opened the fridge to find only a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat alone in the kitchen and wept. That night, we ate plain rice for supper with nothing on the side. Mum kept apologising for not being able to give me what she used to.

Much later, I chanced upon a photo on Facebookmy father and that woman, raising wine glasses in some London restaurant, beaming. My hands shook as I messaged him:
Dad, I need money for school supplies.
He replied:
I cant afford two families.

That was our last conversation.

He never called again. He never asked if I finished school, if I was ill, or if I needed anything. He simply vanished.

Now, I earn my own wage, pay my bills, and help Mum however I can. But the wound lingers. Its not just about the moneyits the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us sinking and went on with his life, as though wed never existed at all.

Yet even now, some nights, the same question weighs heavy in my chest:
How does one recover, when your own father takes everything, leaving you to learn survival before youve even grown up?