“If I find out you’re talking to him—I’ll disown you!” Mum gave my sister and me a terrifying ultimatum.
“I don’t excuse my father, honestly,” says twenty-four-year-old Emily from Manchester. “What he did to Mum was cruel. He left her with two little children—no roof over their heads, not a penny to their name. My sister Charlotte was six at the time, and I was just born. It was the nineties—everything was falling apart, money was tight, and decent jobs were scarce. Mum had to fight to survive, quite literally.”
She worked herself to the bone, taking whatever odd jobs she could—selling vegetables at the market, scrubbing floors, digging gardens—all for us. I remember her coming home late, exhausted, hands cracked and sore, but still forcing a smile—just so we wouldn’t worry.
“Did Dad ever help at all?” I ask.
“No. Not emotionally, not financially. Years later, he claimed, ‘I was young and stupid.’ But Mum never asked him for a thing. No child support, no handouts. She’d say, ‘I’d rather go hungry than beg from him.’ That’s just how proud she was.”
Emily’s mum went through hell. And it’s like her whole personality was forged in that struggle—hardened by pain. Her own mother, Emily’s gran, was stern, almost unfeeling. Neither she nor Mum ever showed us much affection. Everything was strict, by the clock. Dishes always washed, homework done, beds made, floors polished. Once, Charlotte said something out of turn—Mum gave her a look so cold she couldn’t meet her eyes for a week.
“Other girls had completely different mums!” Emily recalls. “Sitting with them on park benches, reading bedtime stories, baking together. Charlotte and I envied that. We missed it. But looking back now, I realise—it made us tough. Both of us got degrees. Charlotte works for a top IT firm now, and I’m just starting out, but I’m getting there.”
When Emily was eleven, Mum qualified as an accountant, landed a steady job, and things eased up. They even saw the sea for the first time—just a short holiday, but it felt like magic.
Then, out of nowhere, Dad reappeared. It happened when Emily turned eighteen. He reached out to Charlotte first—wanted to mend things. But she shut him down:
“He’s done the maths. No more child support to pay, so now he fancies being a father? Sorry, I don’t remember him. And I don’t care to.”
Emily agonised. Part of her resented him; part was curious. Eventually, she met him. They had coffee, then he introduced her to his new family.
“I was surprised,” she admits. “He was… normal. Calm, thoughtful, easy to talk to. No blame, no pressure. We started meeting occasionally. But I kept it from Mum for years.”
The secret blew up when Charlotte slipped and mentioned it.
“If I ever hear you’ve been in contact with him—I’ll cut you off. Remember that,” Mum said, icy and steady, staring straight at her. And Emily was terrified.
Since then, seeing Dad became a secret. She hid her phone, changed his contact name. Lived a double life. Then, recently… he gave her an unexpected gift.
“My fiancé and I are getting married. Money’s tight—we’re renting. Dad found out and offered to buy us a flat. Said, ‘It’s for your fresh start. I want to make things right.’ I cried. I’ve dreamt of having my own place for so long! But now… I don’t know what to do.”
Emily doesn’t believe in “disowning,” but Mum’s words haunt her. She’s terrified the truth will ruin everything. But she can’t keep lying.
“How do I explain the flat? Claim we saved up? Mum knows we couldn’t afford it. Hiding it won’t work. But telling her means facing her anger. Right before the wedding… I don’t want a fight, but I can’t live like this.”
So what’s the answer? Truth—and risk losing Mum? Or silence—and carry the guilt? Emily doesn’t know. But she hopes Mum, after all she’s endured, might find it in her to forgive. Or at least—to understand.