Dad had a happy life with someone else, while Mum sank into depression. Was it his fault?
He came home from work, ate his dinner, chuckled along with the canned laughter from the TVsome old comedy showthen said it so casually, as if announcing the weather: “Tanya, I’m leaving.” And he walked out. To her.
A common story, and sadly, not the only one.
Mums back: sharp shoulder blades pressing through her nightgown, her neck as thin as a childs. And Dads gleaming new car. Those were the two brightest memories of Emilys childhood.
Mums back, curled on the sofa in the sitting room, was the clearest symptom of her depression. But Emily only understood that years later.
Back in the nineties, in their little town, no one talked about depression. Even the doctors at the clinic hadnt a clue. They tried to rouse her mother with vitamin injections and chirpy advice”Youve got a daughter, love, pull yourself together.”
But it was depression. A crushing, monstrous thing that smothered her, stealing joy, appetite, sleep, even the will to move. Mum barely spoke, and when she did, her words were hollow, lifeless.
Without Gran, they wouldnt have made it.
Mum had been vibrant once. That changed in a single May evening. Dad came home, ate, laughed at the telly, then said those awful, ordinary words: “Tanya, I’m leaving.” And he walked away.
Emily was seven. She remembered the unrealness of itthe TV still blaring laughter, Mum crying silently into the wall. How could this happen?
After that, she hardly spoke to her mother. Or rather, to the sorrowful curve of her back.
Dad returned two years later, another May evening. He let himself in, glanced at the sitting room where his ex-wife slept, then winked at Emilycome to the kitchen, dont wake her. Gran was out.
Hope fluttered in Emilys chest. In his smile, she saw an apology, a promise of better days, maybe even Mums recovery.
“Look, Em,” Dad whispered, leading her to the window. She pressed her nose to the glass, heart racing. What miracle had he brought after all this time?
Outside sat a brand-new, shining Jaguar. He beamed, almost brighter than the car.
“Like it, love?”
“Its amazing!”
“Mine. Bought it meself!”
He reminded her of a caveman from a cartoon shed seengrunting, blunt, caring only for his own wants. Just like Dad.
He never asked how Mum was. Didnt know Emily had started piano lessons. Didnt care about her school marks. And certainly never wondered if she had feelings at all.
A knot of emotions tangled inside herhurt, confusion, fear. She didnt know how to unravel it, so she shoved it deep down, where it ached like a bruise.
Dad grinned like a boy. “A Jag, Em! Brand new! Dreamed of it my whole life!”
Emily didnt understand.
His smile faded. He edged out of the kitchen like a thief, quietly shutting the door behind him.
She made a silent wish: if he turned back, looked at her just once, shed forgive him. Try to understand his joy, even with Mum so ill and her own heart cracked open.
He didnt look. Just strode to the car, drove off, and never came back.
Years later, Emily became a psychiatrist. Shame Gran wasnt there the day she pulled up in her own sleek car. Thoughmaybe she was. Emily liked to think Gran Vera watched from heaven, smiling, proud.
But first, she got Mum proper help. Slowly, Mum came back to life, lifting her gaze from the faded wallpaper to the world beyond.
Emily never forgave Dad, though.
Because he never once looked back.
