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, and never returned. My brother, Edward, was only five.

From that day, everything in the house changed. My father, Thomas, began doing things hed never done before: waking up early to make us breakfast, learning to use the washing machine, ironing our school uniforms, and clumsily brushing our hair before school. I watched him misjudge the amount of porridge, burn the toast, and forget to separate the whites from the coloured washing. Yet, he always made sure there was nothing we were missing. Hed come home tired after work, sit with us to check our homework, sign our school planners, and prepare our packed lunches for the next day.

Mum never came back to visit us. Dad never brought another woman into our home. No one was ever introduced as his partner. We knew he went out sometimes, that there were evenings when he came home later than usual, but his personal life always stayed beyond the threshold of our front door. It was always just me and Edward in the house. I never heard him speak of falling in love again. His daily routine consisted of working, coming back home, cooking, washing, sleeping, and then repeating it all the next day.

On weekends, hed take us to Hyde Park, down by the Thames, or to the shopping centreeven if it was just to look at shop windows. He learned to plait hair, sew buttons, and make sandwiches. When we needed costumes for school plays, hed make them out of cardboard and old sheets. I never heard a single complaint. He never said, This isnt my job.

A year ago, my father passed away. It was sudden. There wasnt time for long farewells. As we sorted through his things, I found old notebooks where hed kept track of household expenses, important dates, and reminders like Pay school fees, Buy new shoes, Take Emily to the doctor. There were no love letters, no photos with another woman, no signs of a romantic life. Only traces of a man who lived for his children.

Since hes been gone, one question refuses to leave my mind: was he happy? Mother left to seek her happiness. Father stayed, seemingly sacrificing his own. He never rebuilt his family, never shared his home with another partner, never again became someones priority except ours.

Now, I realise I was lucky to have had such a remarkable father. At the same time, I see he was a man who remained alone so we wouldnt have to be. Thats a heavy truth. Because now, with him gone, I wonder if he ever received the love he truly deserved.

Sometimes, the greatest act of love is quiet and unnoticedthe choice to put someone else first, even at the cost of your own happiness. May we remember to honour those who give so deeply, and strive to love them as wholeheartedly in return.