Dad has a happy life with someone else, while Mum is drowning in depression. Is it his fault?
Dad comes home from work, eats dinner, chuckles along with the studio audience on the tellysome old comedy showthen casually drops the news: “Tanya, I’m leaving.” And just like that, he walks out. To her.
A common enough story, sadly.
Mums back: sharp shoulder blades visible through her nightdress, her neck thin as a childs. And thenDads brand-new, gleaming car. These were the two sharpest memories of Emilys childhood.
Mums back on the sofa in the living room was the clearest sign of her depression. But Emily only understood that later.
Back in the nineties, in their little town, ordinary people didnt talk about depression. Even the doctors at the clinic didnt seem to know. They tried to rouse Mum with vitamin injections and cheerful pep talks”Youve got a daughter, love, pull yourself together.”
But it was depression. Major depressive disorder, a great black bear crushing her, stealing joy, appetite, sleep, even the will to move. Mum barely spoke, and when she did, her words were hollowflat, quiet, lifeless.
Grandma helped. Without her, they wouldnt have made it.
Mum had been vibrant once. That changed one May evening, when Dad came home, ate dinner, laughed at the telly, then calmly said, “Tanya, Im off,” and walked out. To her.
Emily was seven. She remembered the telly still blaring laughter, Mum crying silently into the sofa. How could this be real?
After that, Mum was just a sad shape under a blanket.
Two years later, Dad turned up again. Another May evening. He let himself in, glanced at his ex-wife asleep in the living room, then winked at Emilylike they were in on some secret. Grandma was out.
Hope fluttered in Emilys chest. His smile seemed to say sorry. Maybe things would get better now. Maybe Mum would too.
“Look, Em,” Dad whispered, leading her to the window. She pressed her nose to the glass, expecting something wonderful. After all this time, surely
A shiny new Mercedes sat in the drive. Dad beamed brighter than the car.
“Like it, love?”
“Its amazing!”
“Mine! Bought it meself!”
He reminded her of a caveman from a cartoon shed seengrunting out words without a care for anyone else.
He didnt ask about Mum. Didnt know Emily had started piano lessons. Didnt care about school. Didnt wonder if she had feelings at all.
Just joy. His joy. Over a car.
It didnt last. He slipped out like a thief, shutting the door softly behind him.
Emily made a deal with herself: if he looked back, glanced up at the window, shed forgive him. Try to understand.
He didnt. Just climbed into his Mercedes and drove off. For good.
Years later, Emily became a psychiatrist. Shame Grandma never saw her pull up in her own new car. Or maybe she did. Emily liked to think Nana Rose was watching, smiling down, proud.
Before that, though, she got Mum proper help. Slowly, Mum came back to life. Stopped staring at walls.
But Emily never forgave Dad.
Because he never looked back that May evening when he left for good.
