I Was Eight Years Old When My Mum Left Home: She Went Round the Corner, Took a Taxi, and Never Came Back — My Little Brother Was Five. From Then On, Everything Changed. My Dad Learned to Cook, Wash Our Clothes, Iron School Uniforms, and Clumsily Braid Our Hair Before School. Despite Mistakes With Rice and Laundry, He Made Sure We Never Lacked Anything. He Came Home Tired, Checked Our Homework, Signed Books, Prepared Next Day’s Lunches. Mum Never Returned, Dad Never Brought Another Woman Home or Called Anyone His Partner. On Weekends He Took Us to Parks, Rivers, Shopping Centres — Even If Just to Window-Shop. He Made Costumes for School Events from Cardboard and Old Fabric, Never Complaining or Saying, ‘That’s Not My Job.’ A Year Ago, My Dad Passed Away Suddenly with No Time for Long Goodbyes. In Sorting His Belongings, I Found Not Love Letters or Photos with Another Woman, But Only Notes About Groceries, Important Dates, Doctor’s Visits — Traces of a Man Who Lived Just for His Children. Now He’s Gone, One Question Haunts Me: Was He Ever Truly Happy? My Mum Left to Find Her Own Happiness; My Dad Stayed, Giving Up His Own. He Never Felt Like Anyone’s Priority Except Ours. Today I Know I Had an Incredible Father — But He Was Also a Man Who Chose to Be Alone So We Wouldn’t Be. And That Weighs Heavy, Because Now He’s Gone, I Don’t Know If He Ever Received the Love He Deserved.

I was eight years old when my mum left our home in London. She walked out to the corner of the street, hailed a black cab, and she never came back. My brother was only five.

After that day, everything in our house shifted. Dad started doing things hed never done beforewaking up earlier to cook breakfast, learning how to use the washing machine, ironing our school uniforms, clumsily brushing our hair before we left for school. I watched him muddle through measuring the oats wrong, burning the meals, forgetting to separate whites from colours in the wash. Still, he never let us go without. Hed come home exhausted from work and sit down to go through our homework, sign our diaries, and pack our lunches for the next day.

My mum never came to visit, not once. Dad never brought another woman home. He never introduced anyone as his partner. We knew he had evenings out, that sometimes he came back late, but his personal life never touched the comfort of our walls. It was just me and my brother in our small flat. I never heard him say hed fallen in love again. His routine became work, home, cook, laundry, bedand again.

On weekends, hed take us to Hyde Park or down by the Thames. Sometimes, hed bring us to the shopping centre, even if we only wandered, gazing into shops we couldnt afford. He learned to plait my hair, sew missing buttons onto school shirts, put together packed lunches. When there were school parties and we needed costumes, he fashioned them from cardboard and bits of old fabric. He never sighed. He never said, “Thats not my job.”

A year ago, my dad passed away. It happened so swiftly, there wasn’t time for long goodbyes. When we sorted through his things, I found old notebookslists of household expenses, important dates, reminders like “pay the school trip,” “buy football boots,” “take the girl to the doctor.” No love letters, no photos with someone new, no traces of a romantic lifeonly proof of a man who lived for his children.

Since hes gone, I keep wrestling with one question: was he happy? My mum left to pursue her happiness. Dad stayed, as though he let go of his own. He never made a new family. Never had a home with a partner. Never again was someones priorityexcept us.

Now I recognise that I had a remarkable father. But I understand, too, that he was a man who chose solitude so his children wouldnt feel alone. And the weight of that settles in my chest. Because now, with him gone, I wonder if he ever received the love he truly deserved.