Dad had a happy life with someone else, while Mum sank into depression. Was it his fault?
He came home from work one evening, ate his dinner, chuckled along with the canned laughter from the TVsome old rerun of *Mock the Week*then casually announced, “Tanya, I’m leaving.” And off he went. To her.
A familiar tale, sadlyone of many.
Two things stood out most in little Emilys childhood memories: Mums backsharp shoulder blades and a child-thin neck visible through her nightdressand Dads brand-new, gleaming car.
Mums back, perpetually turned on the sofa, was the main symptom of her depression. Not that anyone in their sleepy Yorkshire town wouldve called it that in the nineties. Even the local GP just prescribed vitamin injections and cheerful pep talks. *”Youve got a daughter, lovepull yourself together!”*
But it was depression. The heavy, suffocating kinda great black bear crushing the life out of her, stealing sleep, appetite, even the will to move. Words, when Mum managed them, came out dull and lifeless, like a record played at the wrong speed.
Without Gran, they wouldnt have made it.
Mum had been bright and lively once. Then, one May evening, Dad came home, ate his dinner, laughed at the telly, and walked out. Just like that.
Emily was seven. She remembered the TV still blaring laughter, Mum crying into the sofa cushions, and the strangeness of it all. *This isnt how things are supposed to happen.*
After that, she hardly spoke to Mumor rather, to the sad, hunched shape of her on the couch.
Two years later, Dad turned up again. Same time of year. Same casual cruelty. He let himself in with his key, peeked at his ex-wife asleep in the lounge, then winked at Emily like they were co-conspirators. *”Come to the kitchenshe wont hear us.”* Gran was out.
Hope fluttered in Emilys chest. Maybe hed say sorry. Maybe hed fix things.
*”Look, Em.”* He led her to the window. She pressed her nose against the glass, half-expecting a miracle.
Outside sat a shiny new Jaguar. Dad beamed brighter than the paintwork.
*”Like it?”*
*”Yeah!”*
*”Mine. Bought it meself!”*
He reminded her of a caveman from a cartoon shed seengrunting out his desires with no thought for anyone else.
Did he care how Mum was? If Emily had started piano lessons? What she got in her spelling test? Course not.
A tangled mess of feelings sat in her chestanger, confusion, fearbut she shoved it down. No one had taught her how to untangle it anyway.
Dad was too busy gloating. *”A Jag! Brand new! Always wanted one!”*
Emily didnt get it.
His grin faded. He slipped out like a burglar, gently shutting the door behind him.
She made a silent deal: *If he looks back, Ill forgive him.*
He didnt. Just marched to the car, drove off, and never came back.
Years later, Emily became a psychiatrist. Shame Gran never saw her pull up in her own nice carthough maybe she *was* watching. Smiling down, proud of her Em.
But first, she got Mum proper help. Real treatment. Slowly, Mum came backstopped staring at walls, started living.
Emily never forgave Dad, though.
Because that night, when he walked away for goodhe didnt look back.
