I was eight years old when my mum left home—she walked to the corner, got into a taxi, and never came back. My brother was five. From then on, everything in our house changed: Dad started doing things he’d never done before—waking up early to make breakfast, learning how to wash clothes, ironing our uniforms, clumsily brushing our hair before school. I watched him get the measurements of the rice wrong, burn the food, forget to separate whites from colours. Yet he never let us go without. Every evening, he’d come home tired from work, check our homework, sign our notebooks, and prepare our packed lunches for the next day. Mum never returned to visit. Dad never introduced another woman at home, never presented anyone as his partner. We knew he went out and sometimes stayed late, but his personal life remained outside the walls of our home. It was just me and my brother. I never once heard him say he’d fallen in love again—his routine was to work, come home, cook, do laundry, sleep, and repeat. On weekends, he took us to the park, to the river, even just window shopping at the nearest shopping centre. He learnt how to braid hair, sew on buttons, make packed lunches. When we needed costumes for school events, he’d make them from cardboard and old fabric. He never complained. He never said, “This isn’t my job.” A year ago, my dad passed away. It happened quickly—no time for long goodbyes. Sorting through his things, I found old notebooks, lists of household expenses, important dates, reminders like “pay the fee,” “buy shoes,” “take the girl to the doctor.” There were no love letters, no photos of another woman, no signs of romantic life—only the traces of a man who lived for his children. Since he’s been gone, one question won’t leave me: was he happy? My mum left to find her own happiness; my dad stayed and seemed to sacrifice his own. He never built another family, never had a partner to share a home with, never again was anyone’s priority except ours. Now I realise I had an incredible father. But I also know he was a man who stayed alone so that we wouldn’t be. And that weighs on me. Because now that he’s gone, I wonder if he ever received the love he truly deserved.

I was eight years old when my mum left our home. She walked to the corner, got into a black cab, and never came back. My brother was only five.

Since that day, everything in the house changed. My dad started doing things he’d never done before: waking up early to make us breakfast, learning how to do the washing, ironing our uniforms, awkwardly brushing our hair before school. I watched him muddle the measurements for porridge oats, burn the toast, forget to separate the whites from the colours in the laundry. Yet, he never let us go without anything. Hed come home exhausted from work, sit down to check our homework, sign our school books, and prepare packed lunches for the next day.

Mum never returned to visit. Dad never brought another woman home. He never introduced anyone as his partner. We knew he sometimes went out, and occasionally came back late, but his private life stayed outside our walls. At home, it was just my brother and me. I never heard him say hed fallen in love again. His routine was working, coming home, cooking, cleaning, going to bed, and repeating it all next morning.

On weekends, hed take us to the park, down by the river, or sometimes to the shopping centreeven if all we did was browse the windows. He learned to braid hair, sew buttons, prepare packed lunches. If we needed costumes for school plays, he made them himself from cardboard and old clothes. He never complained. Not once did he say, Thats not my job.

A year ago, Dad went to be with God. It happened so quickly. There was no time for lengthy goodbyes. When we sorted through his things, I found old notepads full of family expenses, important dates, reminders like, pay the school fees, buy shoes, take the girl to the doctor. There were no love letters, no photos with another woman, no traces of a romantic life. Only the record of a man whose life was entirely devoted to his children.

Since hes been gone, one question haunts me: was he ever truly happy? Mum left in search of her happiness. Dad stayed, and it seems he gave up his own. He never built another family, never made a new home with someone else. He was never anyones priority again, apart from us.

Today, I realise how lucky I was to have such an incredible father. But I also understand he was a man who chose solitude so that we would never be alone. And that weighs heavily. Because now, without him, I wonder if he ever received the love he truly deserved.