A Letter to the Father Who Left When I Was Five
More than forty years have passed. I am now forty-seven. I have a family, children, a good job—everything one might think brings happiness. Yet there remains a shard from the past that still aches. A single letter, tucked away at the bottom of a drawer of memories, one I will never dare to send. Because the man it’s addressed to does not deserve it. This letter is for my father. The one who simply walked out of our lives one day and never returned.
You left when I was five. Just vanished. No goodbye, no explanation, not even a note. At the time, I didn’t understand what had happened. Mum just stopped crying at night and grew quieter. And I—I began to wait. At first, every day. Then, only on holidays. Eventually, for no reason at all. I waited for you to come back. To walk through the door. To hug me. To say, “Sweetheart, I’m here.” But you never did.
People always say boys struggle more when a father leaves. But I was a girl. And it was unbearable. I envied my friends when their fathers picked them up from school—hoisting them onto their shoulders, handing them sweets, smiling. And me? I stood to the side, watching them disappear together through the gates.
You were never much of a father, even when you still lived with us. I don’t remember trips to the cinema, you teaching me to ride a bike, or reading bedtime stories. There were no family dinners, no games, not even a single photograph where we looked happy.
You were forever absent. Business trips, friends, work… To me, “business trip” sounded like the name of some magical town where you were happy because no one there was waiting for you.
When you and Mum divorced, the house grew even quieter. The smell of your cigarettes vanished, your aftershave no longer sat on the shelf. And that was it. You were gone, but in truth, you were never really there to begin with.
Mum never remarried, though she could have. She devoted herself to me. Worked herself ragged, sewing late into the night, taking on extra jobs. She raised me alone. Without help, without complaint. Only you, once a month, would appear at the door—silently handing her money before leaving. Never stepping inside. Never even looking at me.
One day stands out in my memory. I’d been given a new school uniform—a blue dress with a neat collar, slightly flared. I twirled in front of the mirror, imagining how I’d walk into school and everyone would say, “What a lovely girl!” I dreamed that you would see it.
When the doorbell rang, I rushed to put it on. Thought it was you. Wanted to show you. Wanted to hear, “You’ve grown up so much.” But when I ran into the hallway, all I saw was the door closing. You were gone. Quickly. As always. In a hurry—off to someone or something more important than your daughter in her new school dress. That was the first time I truly wept.
Later, I learned you’d always wanted a son. That even before me, you’d only had daughters. Apparently, I still “wasn’t right.” You didn’t even choose my name. Perhaps if I’d been a boy, you’d have stayed. A foolish thought, but it stayed with me for years.
As I grew older, I hardened, trying to fill the void. Early teenage rebellion, my first cigarette, nights out with friends… Mum endured it, cried, but never gave up. Thank God her love and patience were enough.
After my first year at university, I started working. Studied by day, translated technical manuals on an old typewriter at night. Computers were a luxury. I saved for my own flat. Wanted to prove I could manage—alone. Without you.
When I finally moved out, Mum said with pride, “Emily’s on her own now. Pays her own way, lives her own life.” But you never called. Never asked.
I graduated. Built a career. Became a department head. Bought a car, then a flat. All with one thought: What if you appeared, saw it all, and said, “I’m proud of you”? I even chose my husband as if silently asking, “Would Dad approve?”
Once, fate brought us together. I had to deliver some papers to you. I prepared as if for a first date. Nervous, picking the right outfit, rehearsing what to say. And you—you just took the folder and asked, “Is that all?” No embrace. No glance. Not a single kind word. I’ve never felt so cold in my life.
I stepped outside, got into my car, and cried. For a long time. Like a child. But then, suddenly, I felt something shift. As if a shard of glass—sharp, cutting—had fallen from my heart. In that moment, I let go.
I realized you were just a passerby in my life. A ghost. A shadow. No matter how hard I tried to earn your love—you were incapable of giving it. I stopped asking “why.” Stopped waiting.
You taught me so much. Not directly, no. But because of you, I became strong. Learned to fight for everything myself. And whatever anyone says, I am grateful. For knowing how to love. For having a good man beside me. For my children never knowing what it means to live without a father.
And you know what? I’ve forgiven you. Because I’ve learned not to expect love from those who cannot give it. You are not a father. You’re just a man who left one day. But I—I am the one who stayed. Who grew. And who won.
