Most of the time, I completely forget that my biological father exists. 

Films, TV shows and literature always depict the children of an absent parent as extremely troubled, yearning for something to fill the chasm the parent left behind. This is of course a natural reaction to abandonment. 

Except, I’m sceptical that it’s the case for everyone, because it certainly isn’t for me. 

My biological father (this very formal term is how I refer to him, because in my opinion a dad is the person who raises you) moved out when I was a baby.  

My earliest memories of him are from when I was about four years old. I recall sitting on the front step on Saturday mornings wearing my favourite dress, craning my neck in the hope of catching a glimpse of his car driving up the street. 

My mum would usually wait an hour and if he hadn’t answered her furious phone calls, she’d beckon me in for an ice cream. Then we’d do whatever fun afternoon she’d planned as a safety net – just in case.  

My whole childhood he dipped in and out as and when it suited him. When I think of him, I think of him telling me out of the blue that he was moving to America for a year and was leaving the next day. 

I think of the day he got back and how he, instead of spending time with me, dumped me in a soft play centre so he could have a drink with his mates. 

I think of him giving me piles of expensive toys for Christmas. He told me I couldn’t take them home and could only play with them if I came to visit him. Then I didn’t see him for five months. Those toys just sat there, an ostentatious display of how much more money he had than my mum. 

Eventually, I came to prefer it when he wasn’t around. If I knew he hadn’t promised to come, I didn’t have to worry about whether or not he’d actually show up.

I let my mum know that I didn’t want to be around him more than I had to be. When she told him this, he didn’t believe it had come from me and took her to court for more visitation time. I was seven.

It was clear my young mum, fiercely caring, dedicated and organised, would always be the safest choice of care-giver

This court case gradually morphed into a custody battle that lasted two years. He only sporadically turned up to court dates, a mirror of his behaviour throughout my childhood. My father didn’t actually desire more parental responsibility – it appeared he wanted to prove that he was a good dad without actually putting the work in, to get one over on my mum in his pride.

I didn’t want to live with him. I loved living with my mum. The fact that he never consulted me, never asked whether I actually wanted to be with him, hurt and prompted me to decide that I didn’t want to see him anymore. 

I never really considered the possibility of my father getting custody, because it was clear he didn’t want me to live with him. He had never been a responsible guardian. 

I have a handful of memories of the rare times I spent the day with him: spending hours at the beach and getting a nasty sunburn because he didn’t bother to apply my sun cream; being allowed to run round his backyard with no shoes on and cutting my foot on a piece of slate; being allowed to stay up all night and eat what I wanted. 

It was clear my young mum, fiercely caring, dedicated and organised, would always be the safest choice of care-giver. I just remember thinking I wanted the whole process to go away so I could go to school and play with my dog. 

The court’s assigned psychologists repeatedly questioned my decision and asked whether my mum was making me say things I didn’t really feel. 

They’d talk openly among themselves in front of me about my mum having no financial stability and being a young mum from a council estate, comparing this to my father’s middle-class background. They thought I was too young to understand.

When asked: ‘Won’t you miss your dad?’ I said all I wanted was to be left alone. 

In the end, my father’s failure to show up to court dates lost him his bid for custody and his visitation rights. It has now been 20 years since I last saw my father and, other than writing this, I genuinely don’t think about him. 

Such experiences have instilled in me that the most important thing is having people around you who care – like my mum.

I don’t feel resentful towards my biological father, but I don’t feel incomplete without him either, or even curious about where he is now. I have no connection to him – my loyalties are to those who play an active, consistent role in my life. 

Such people have taught me my worth and how to show up for others simply by always being there for me when I most need them; for the boring, prosaic times as well as the fun.

Now, when I think of father figures, I think of my grandad on my mum’s side turning up to my school performances with a bunch of flowers and a box of Milk Tray. 

I think of my mum’s three brothers taking care of me when I had a stomach bug, taking it in turns to rub my back and hold the bucket. Most of all, I think of my beautiful, hilarious mum living off slices of bread so that she could afford to cook me roast potatoes and veg.

Despite this, there exists a general societal assumption that because of the deemed ‘detrimental’ effects of parental absence, allowances should be made for blood relatives purely on the basis that they are family. 

But, as I’ve learned, parents can be selfish, irresponsible and can cause much more damage by having an unreliable presence in their child’s life than by being out of the picture altogether. I can safely say that I’m better off without my dad.

We should teach children empathy and that nobody’s perfect, but we can’t allow them to think that it’s OK for those who love them to be flippant with their love. We all deserve someone committed to us. 

Degrees of Separation

This series aims to offer a nuanced look at familial estrangement.

Estrangement is not a one-size-fits-all situation, and we want to give voice to those who’ve been through it themselves.

If you’ve experienced estrangement personally and want to share your story, you can email [email protected] and/or [email protected]

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