To this day, I sometimes wake in the middle of the night, wondering when my father managed to take everything from us.
I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a modest but tidy house in Brighton with our battered armchairs, a fridge filled on grocery days, bills usually settled with pounds and pence before the red letters arrived. I was in Year 11; all I worried about was scraping through maths and saving for those trainers I craved.
Everything began to ripple and shift when my father started coming home later and later. Hed step inside without a word, toss his keys onto the kitchen table, and vanish straight into the lounge with his mobile glued to his palm. Mum would call after him, her voice frayed at the edges, Late again, are you? Dyou really think this house runs itself? Hed reply, dry as dust, Just leave me be, Im exhausted. Id listen from my bedroom, earbuds in, pretending nothing at all was happening.
One night, I watched him pace the back garden with his phone. He laughed under his breath, saying things like, Its nearly sorted, and, Dont worry, Ill handle it. When he spotted me, the laughter snapped off. I felt a strange cold knot in my stomach but said nothing.
The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school to find his suitcase yawning open across the bed. Mum stood in the doorway of their room, her eyes rimmed red. I asked, Wheres he going? He didnt even look at me and said, Ill be gone for a while. Mum shouted, A while with who? Just say it! He exploded then, Im leaving for another woman. Im sick of this life! I broke, sobbing, What about me? My school? Our house? All he said was, Youll figure it out. He slammed his bag shut, grabbed his papers from the drawer, swept up his wallet, and walked out. No goodbye. Not even a glance.
That night, Mum tried to withdraw money at the cashpoint, but her card got rejected. Next day, she went to the bank and they told her the account was empty hed cleared out everything theyd saved. We soon learnt hed left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan, naming Mum as guarantor behind her back.
I remember her hunched over the kitchen table, sorting through receipts with her ancient calculator, tears dripping onto the figures, repeating, Its not enough its never enough I tried to help with the bills but couldnt understand half of what was happening.
A week later, our Wi-Fi was cut off. Soon after, the lights nearly went. Mum began cleaning peoples homes, scraps of cash in her coat pocket. I started selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed to stand around at break with a bag of chocolate bars, but I did it because even basics were running out at home.
There was a day I opened the fridge and found nothing but a jug of water and half a tomato. I sat alone in the kitchen and cried. That night we ate plain white rice, no butter, nothing. Mum kept saying sorry, apologizing over and over for not being able to give me the things she used to.
Much later, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a photo of Dad with that woman at a restaurant in London wine glasses raised for a toast. My hands shook. I messaged him: Dad, I need money for school supplies. He replied, I cant support two families. That was the last time we spoke.
Afterwards, he never rang. Never asked if Id finished my GCSEs, if I was unwell, if I needed anything. He simply disappeared.
Now I work, pay for everything myself, and help Mum. But the wound is still raw. Not just because of the money, but because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us drowning and kept swimming away like none of it had ever mattered.
And still, on countless nights, I wake up with that same bitter question crowding my chest:
How do you survive when your own father takes everything and leaves you to learn how to keep breathing, when youre still a child?
