For much of my childhood and teenage years, I lived with both my parents, but emotionally, I missed my father. My home wasn’t the warm, nurturing space every child dreams of. From my earliest memories, I could tell that my parents’ marriage was strained. It was as if they resented each other—and in many ways, they probably did. But my mother stayed in the marriage—for us, her five children.
Despite the heavy emotional toll she carried, my mother was always present. She showed up for us physically, emotionally, and spiritually, even when her own heart was likely breaking. She never let her frustrations spill over to us. She was a listener, and a mediator for our small sibling squabbles, and she always found a way to create memories. Whether it was birthdays, Christmas, or Easter, she did her best with the little we had to make those moments special. Yet, as I grew older, I began to see how deeply her toxic relationship with my father was affecting her. It pained me to witness her enduring so much without complaint, while still giving us all her love.
My father, on the other hand, was a paradox—so close, yet emotionally distant. He was there physically, but it felt as though he was always a world away. He worked hard to provide for us, ensuring we had food on the table, school fees paid, and strict academic expectations. For that, I was always grateful. But as a young girl, I craved something deeper: a father-daughter bond. I longed to feel the safety of his embrace, to cry on his shoulder when things at school got tough. But I never dared. Approaching him felt like stepping into a storm of judgment. His response to any emotional expression would be a lecture about how feelings were a waste of time.
I often wondered what my siblings and I had done to be so disliked, at least that’s how it felt. Birthdays were taboo around him; he dismissed them as trivial and unimportant. Friendships, too, were deemed unnecessary. My father had no friends and saw no reason for us to have them either. And when my sisters and I hit our teenage years and the natural interest in boys surfaced, even that was strictly forbidden. We were punished for any indication of a crush, and over time, the emotional wounds deepened.
Inside, we were all broken. Our mother did her best to soften the blow, but there was only so much she could do. The atmosphere of constant tension and disapproval weighed heavily on my heart. At one point, I became consumed by anger. I didn’t ask to be born into a world where my existence seemed to irritate my father. “Why am I here if I’m such a burden to him?” I often asked myself. The pain of feeling unwanted was overwhelming. I would lie in bed at night wishing for an escape from the heartache, praying for a day when I wouldn’t have to wake up. I even bargained with God: “If You make my father love me, I’ll serve You forever.”
In my teenage years, the emotional toll became even heavier when we learned my father had started another family. My parents eventually separated, and we stayed with my mother most of the time. Despite everything, my love for my father never waned. Even as I descended into my darkest emotional spaces, I clung to the hope of one day having a relationship with him. I dreamed of picking up the phone to call him just to chat—but fear always held me back. I missed him deeply, especially when I saw other girls with their dads, laughing and bonding. I grieved for the father I never had, and the moments I would never experience.
As the years passed, I slowly came to terms with reality. I realized I had to stop blaming myself for the fractured relationship. It wasn’t my fault, nor was it something I could fix. Today, I still don’t know where my father lives. He visits maybe once a year, and we talk occasionally on the phone. Sometimes, I sense that he regrets the way things turned out, but we can only move forward from here. The relationship we have is far from what I once dreamed of, but it’s something.
There are still days when the grief resurfaces. I mourn the loss of the relationship I wanted but never had. Yet, over time, I’ve learned how to carry that grief with a little more ease. Healing is not a straight path. It ebbs and flows, and some days are harder than others. But with every passing year, I find a little more peace. I remind myself that I did nothing wrong, that I am worthy of love—even if my father was never able to show it in the way I needed.
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