As I write this, my dad is in hospital and I’ve been told he has a couple of months to live. My mum told me on the phone a few days ago. We’d chatted about kitchen utensils, our upcoming holiday, my kids and the weather, before she dropped it in. This must sound alien to some people. Callous, even. But, since my third birthday, he hasn’t been there for a single day of my life, so I won’t be there for his last.
I don’t tend to use the word ‘dad’ when I refer to him. I use his real name – because that feels more honest. He’s not my dad and he never has been. You’ve got to work at that relationship or, at the very least, you’ve got to be present.
In 1977 when I was three, my mum secretly packed up our things into bags and hid them until a day he was at work. This happened because – after not seeing her for a long time – a cousin had bumped into my mum on the high street where we lived. Mum had a black eye and her glasses were taped up in the middle. The family rallied round and said enough was enough. Cousins, uncles and aunties came and picked us up to take us back to our tiny home town where we would all be safe away from the angry, violent man who is my dad.
This essay is featured in our 2020-2024 book. You can buy it in the shop.
As I write this, my dad is in hospital and I’ve been told he has a couple of months to live. My mum told me on the phone a few days ago. We’d chatted about kitchen utensils, our upcoming holiday, my kids and the weather, before she dropped it in. This must sound alien to some people. Callous, even. But, since my third birthday, he hasn’t been there for a single day of my life, so I won’t be there for his last.
I don’t tend to use the word ‘dad’ when I refer to him. I use his real name – because that feels more honest. He’s not my dad and he never has been. You’ve got to work at that relationship or, at the very least, you’ve got to be present.
In 1977 when I was three, my mum secretly packed up our things into bags and hid them until a day he was at work. This happened because – after not seeing her for a long time – a cousin had bumped into my mum on the high street where we lived. Mum had a black eye and her glasses were taped up in the middle. The family rallied round and said enough was enough. Cousins, uncles and aunties came and picked us up to take us back to our tiny home town where we would all be safe away from the angry, violent man who is my dad.
Cousins, uncles and aunties came and picked us up to take us back to our tiny home town where we would all be safe away from the angry, violent man who is my dad.
Being a single mum in the seventies with three kids cannot have been easy. We had very little money and I’m sure she missed meals so she could feed us enough. I remember her getting us to hide with her behind the settee so we were out of sight when the milkman tapped on the door doing his collections. I once went to school in a jumper Mum had got from a jumble sale and I was laughed at by the girl whose jumper it used to belong to.
Despite this, I don’t think my childhood was unhappy. I remember a lot of jolly times. My mum was captain of the local Girl Guides so we went on trips to the beach and we camped and cooked outdoors. We had an annual bonfire in our back garden that all the neighbours came to. Christmas always felt magical, too: I would race my brother and sister to open the paper advent calendar to see what picture was behind the door.
Maybe he could mend things, help me move house, or tell me to do my homework. He could have been a different ear to moan at when Mum or my brother or sister were annoying me. If of course, he’d have just been there.
What I am unhappy about is my dad. I would have liked to have had a better one.
Years ago, I was on an away day training course with lots of colleagues from work. There were people of all ages and backgrounds. There was a man that really caught my eye because he looked a bit like me. He was in his sixties but his features were like mine and I imagined, for the first time in my life, what it would have been like to have had a good dad. I was mesmerised by him and this surprised me. I don't think I’d ever thought about what it would be like to have grown up with a dad until that day.
He wouldn't have had to be perfect, just kind. Maybe he could mend things, help me move house, or tell me to do my homework. He could have been a different ear to moan at when Mum or my brother or sister were annoying me. If of course, he’d have just been there. It would even just have been nice not to have to explain over and over to people that I didn’t have a dad. It was different in the seventies. We were the only single-parent family on our street.
I thought about going to see him in hospital during his final weeks or months. I rolled the idea around in my head and wondered if I should, as this would be the last chance. But I have decided not to. I don’t know what it would achieve or change or open up. I don’t know him and an awkward visit to a hospital bed won’t change that.
I’ve also asked them not to get me a card or send flowers or for colleagues to offer condolences, because that would feel fraudulent.
I’ve told my line manager at work that his death is imminent, and I’ve asked for a couple of days off to walk and think things through when I hear that he’s died. I’ve also asked them not to get me a card or send flowers or for colleagues to offer condolences, because that would feel fraudulent. I don’t mind if they know what has happened, and they can check I’m OK if they want to. But this is not your normal situation, and I think letting people know what’s about to happen makes it easier for all of us.
Having a dad would have helped my mum and my siblings throughout our lives, there’s no doubt. I think it would have made me feel less different growing up. And this is why I am indifferent to him dying now. Because he was never, ever there.
This is the first one!
Published tomorrow!