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 comedy show playingthen said it so casually it could have been about the weather: “Tanya, I’m leaving.” And he did. Just like that. Gone to another woman.
A story as old as time, and far too common.
Mums backsharp shoulder blades pressing through her nightdress, her neck as thin as a childs. And Dads gleaming new car. Those were the two things young Emily remembered most from that year.
Mum lying on the sofa, silent and still, was the clearest sign of her depression. But Emily wouldnt understand that until much later.
Back then, in the nineties, no one in their little town knew much about depression. Even the doctors at the clinic didnt recognise it. They tried to jolt Mum into life with vitamin injections and cheerful lectures: *Youve got a daughter, love. Pull yourself together.*
But it was depression. The kind that sits on your chest like a great black bear, crushing out joy, hunger, sleepeven the will to move. Mum could barely speak, and when she did, the words came out hollow, lifeless, as if spoken through fog.
They wouldnt have survived without Gran.
Mum had been bright and full of laughteruntil that May evening. Dad came home, ate, laughed at the telly, then said those four words. And left.
Emily was seven. She remembered the strangeness of itthe laughter still blaring from the screen, no one bothering to turn it off, while Mum lay facing the wall, crying. *Is this how things happen?*
After that, she barely spoke to Mumor rather, to the sad curve of her back on the sofa.
Two years later, Dad returned. Another May evening. He let himself in with his key, glanced at the living room where his ex-wife slept, then winked at Emily*come to the kitchen, dont wake her.* Gran was out.
Hope fluttered in Emilys chest. In his smile, she saw an apology for vanishing, a promise of something better. Maybe even a chance for Mum to get well again.
“Look, Em,” he whispered, leading her to the window. She pressed her nose against the glass, heart racing. *What miracle had he brought?*
There, in the driveway, sat a brand-new Mercedes. Dad beamed with pride.
“Do you like it?”
“Its amazing!”
“Mine. Bought it myself.”
He reminded her of a caveman from a cartoon shed seengrunting out words, careless of how they landed. Just like Dad.
He didnt ask about Mum. Didnt know Emily had started piano lessons. Didnt care about school. And it never crossed his mind that she might feel anything at all.
Resentment. Confusion. Fear. A tangled mess inside her, too big to nameso she shoved it down, deep, where it only ached dully in her chest.
Dad grinned like a boy. “A Mercedes! Dreamed of this my whole life!”
Emily didnt understand.
His excitement faded fast. He edged out of the kitchen like a thief, shutting the door softly behind him. Out to the car.
She made a silent bargain: *If he looks back, if he sees me in the window, Ill forgive him. Ill try to understand.*
He didnt look. Just climbed in, started the engine, and drove away. For good.
Years later, Emily became a psychiatrist. Shame Gran wasnt there to see her pull up in her own new car. But then againmaybe she *was* watching. Smiling. Proud.
Before that, though, she got Mum into a proper hospital. Got her help. Got her living again.
But she never forgave Dad.
Because he never looked back. Not once. Not when it mattered.
