When my father passed away two years ago, it felt more like losing a ghost than a person. We hadn’t spoken in seven years. That was my choice—a decision I made to protect my mental well-being and the well-being of my children. As a mother, I had to look out for my boys too. The pain of our fractured relationship was too much to bear, and I thought that distance might help me heal. But when he died, I realised that I wasn’t just grieving the man who had passed—I was mourning the father I never truly had, the father who simply could not be the dad I had needed.
My mother died five months ago. She had been in a coma for 30 years, a state of suspended life that began when I was too young to form any real memories of her. Her death unearthed old wounds and forced me to confront the hollow places in my heart where my father should have been.
I am an only child, and I often wonder what it would have been like to share these burdens with a sibling, someone who could understand this tangled web of emotions. But I was alone in this, just as I was alone in my relationship with my father. My parents separated when I was one, and from that point on, my connection with him was dictated by a court order. Visitation was not a choice but a schedule—every three weeks, on a Saturday, from 9 AM to 8 PM. I would sit in the living room, waiting for the clock to strike 2 PM when he would arrive, and my aunt would be there, overseeing the visits like an unspoken chaperone.
He would sit across from me, our chairs positioned as if we were two strangers in a waiting room. His questions were always the same, mundane and obligatory: “How’s school?” “Do you need anything?” I would answer, and then we’d fall into that uncomfortable silence. He would leave before dinner, and I would be left with a sense of emptiness, wondering why these visits felt more like a duty than a desire.
Looking back now, I wonder if my father ever truly wanted to be a dad. I was an unexpected pregnancy, a surprise that neither of my parents seemed prepared for. Did he feel burdened by my existence? Was his reluctance to embrace fatherhood a reflection of his own fears and insecurities? And how did the circumstances of our lives—the separation, the court order, the infrequent visits—affect his ability to bond with me? I’ll never know for sure, but these questions linger like shadows in the corners of my mind.
For years, I carried the weight of his absence as a form of rejection. I believed that if I had been different—better, quieter, more lovable, maybe even a boy? (I thought this a lot) —he might have stayed, might have loved me the way fathers are supposed to love their children. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to see that the situation was far more complex than my childhood self could understand. My studies in social work have taught me that relationships are rarely black and white, that there are always layers of pain, fear, and unspoken emotions beneath the surface.
It wasn’t until recently that I started to consider my father’s perspective. I had always been so focused on my own pain that I never thought about what he might have been going through. My mother’s condition—a coma that lasted three decades—wasn’t just hard on me. It must have been devastating for him too. Did it hurt him to see me? Was I too much like her, a painful reminder of the life they once shared, now shattered and unreachable? I remember trying to talk to him about my mother during my teenage years. I was desperate for some connection, some shared memory that might bring us closer. But every time I mentioned her, he would change the subject, his eyes clouding over with something I couldn’t quite decipher. At the time, it felt like he was dismissing me, but now, I wonder if it was simply too painful for him to talk about her, too difficult to confront the loss he had never fully processed.
There came a point when I had to protect myself. The emotional strain of our fractured relationship, coupled with my father’s relationship with alcohol, became too much. As a mother, I knew I had to make choices that were best not just for me, but for my boys too. I made the difficult decision to cut ties. It wasn’t easy, but I felt it was necessary. However, I now live with the regret of that decision, especially because one month before he died, he called me. I knew it was him, but I didn’t answer. I was afraid he had been drinking again, as he often did when he reached out. His call went to voicemail, and he left a message—an apology, asking me to call him back. I never did. The weight of that decision, and the hurt I must have caused him, is something I sit with every day.
When my father died, I didn’t attend his funeral. I couldn’t bear the thought of standing among people who had known him in ways I never did, mourning a man who felt like a stranger to me. Instead, I chose a more private farewell. I visited him alone, needing to find my own way to say goodbye.
Standing beside his still form, I felt the weight of every missed opportunity and unsaid word. I reached out and stroked his face, i had never touched my fathers face, my fingers grazing the cold, unyielding skin that was a stark reminder of the distance between us. The coolness of his skin was a poignant echo of the emotional chill that had defined our relationship. In that moment, the reality of his absence was palpable, the finality of our estrangement laid bare.
As I navigate the grief of losing both my parents, I’m learning to find peace in understanding the complexities of our relationships. It’s taken time and reflection to realize that my father’s distance wasn’t just a matter of rejection—it was a product of his own struggles, his own fears, and the circumstances we both found ourselves in. He was likely navigating his own grief, his own regrets, just as I was.
Grief is a strange thing. It’s not always about what we have lost, but about what we never had. I mourn the father who never knew how to love me, the relationship we never built, and the questions that will forever remain unanswered. But I’m also learning that grief can be a teacher, that it can guide us to a deeper understanding of ourselves and those we have lost.
I’ve come to realise that the silence between us was never just about distance or absence. It was about all the things we couldn’t say, all the emotions we couldn’t express, and the pain we couldn’t share. And while that silence still lingers, I’m trying to find peace in the knowledge that we were both doing the best we could with the cards we were dealt.
In the quiet spaces between us, I’m learning to find solace, embracing the imperfect pieces of our shared story, and understanding that even in the absence of what I needed, there’s room for forgiveness and healing.
If you’ve found echoes of your own experiences in my story, I hope it offers some comfort and insight. Grief and estrangement are deeply personal journeys, and each of us navigates them in our own way. May we all find the courage to face our pain, to seek understanding, and to find peace in the complexities of our relationships.
With warmth and reflection,
Kathryn (Joyful Sarcasm)
What an enlightening and profound piece Kathryn. Thanks for sharing. It must have been very lonely to grow up without a mother, a father, and siblings. And also very difficult to lose your father without healing the relationship. Relationships are so complex and the product of so many factors and emotions that trying to understand them from others' perspectives can be difficult. In my view, it requires lots of reflection, understanding, and maybe even some humility.
So powerful. When I read something so profound I’m usually at a loss for words…