I lost Dad at 17 – but I was 34 when he died

At 15, my older sister and I witnessed a physical fight between my dad and his second wife after he discovered that she had hidden his bottle of whiskey again. 

This wasn’t the first time she had done this, but the anger that came from him that night was different. Though a family member who happened to be there at the time pulled us out of the house before we could see more, the damage had already been done.  

She left him soon after and with no safety net, I started to skip weekend visits. 

By the age of 17 I realised it had been months since I had seen or spoken to him. 

No epiphany, no dramatic movie moment declaring ‘I never want to see you again’, just a lingering sadness that the man I once called ‘daddy’ still existed but was no longer part of my life.  

Growing up, I didn’t realise that my childhood was different to my peers.  

The long weekends spent in pub gardens followed by late nights at his friend’s house, watching him get more and more drunk were normal. We were used to being sent to bed wherever we were, then woken up in the middle of the night to walk home. 

Then there was the emotional abuse. Being told that children should be seen and not heard, how he wished we had been boys, and that we were fat and ugly is not something little ears should ever hear.  

When words and actions like this are part of your existence, you think it’s OK, so it never occurred to us to mention it to our loving mum.  

They had divorced when I was just a baby. The joint custody arrangement meant he had us every weekend. Maybe he thought he could still live a carefree life even with kids in tow.  

Now a mother myself, I know without a doubt that had she known what we were witnessing and experiencing, she would have ceased contact immediately and kept us away from him. 

Despite everything, there were fleeting moments of a father who loved his children.  

The daddy who would dance with us on his feet, taught us how to cook, and would make us laugh till our tummies hurt. I clung on to those moments, hoping that they would win, and they almost did.  

His most sober years were when he lived in London. The wedding to his second wife signalled a new beginning – I remember being amazed by the croquembouche he made from scratch for their wedding cake.

There were fond memories of spending a summer with them, visiting the Tower of London, going shopping on Oxford Street and long, hot days spent in the garden, reminding me that at one point there was a glimmer of normality.  

Things deteriorated again when they moved back to a small town in Wales. The temptation became too strong and eventually the drink won. When I saw my dad’s anger explode into that physical outburst, I felt sick, because just like that, it was finally clear how serious his problem was. 

Before I knew it five years had passed with no contact. However, when I was 20, desperate to salvage what was lost, I reached out, hopeful he would want to change and rebuild a relationship.  

Instead, I was dismissed with a measly ‘I have your number now, I will keep in contact.’ An unspoken rejection hung in the air and the message was clear that there was no going back.  

In 2019, my sister took the call we had always dreaded. Our paternal aunt tracked her down on social media, and called to tell her that dad had died alone, on his sofa.  

I can’t imagine how my older sister felt having to tell me this news. At first, I felt numb. I wished there was some kind of rule book to guide me through how I should feel. 

It wasn’t until a few days later that it hit me. At the age of 34, I no longer had a daddy. 

There was no funeral – he died alone and would be laid to rest alone, a decision I will never fully understand, but one that wasn’t mine to make. If there had been one, I know I would have been tormented over whether to attend.   

When an estranged parent dies there is an overwhelming sense of grief, and surprisingly, a wave of relief. Although the option to reconnect has been permanently taken away, the burden of worry that you could accidentally bump into them is gone.  

Then there is guilt. Did I abandon him in his time of need? If I hadn’t made the choice to go no contact, could he have been saved from his alcoholism? Would knowing his grandchildren have helped him turn his life around?  

That last question lingers, but if I ever doubt my decision to keep him out of their lives, I remember the way I felt as a child and how that is still with me as an adult.  

The low self-esteem, the anxiety and the voice that says you’re not good enough remind me that I could never have risked exposing my children to that.

Instead, my estrangement from him shaped me as a parent. The missing years fuelled me to break his cycle and raise my kids differently. I parent them gently, nurturing and listening to them. I make them feel safe, loved, and wanted. 

When they bring him up, I tread carefully. How do you explain alcoholism to children? All I can say is: ‘He made choices that didn’t keep me safe, so I chose to keep myself safe.’

And just recently, my six-year-old asked me: ‘Do you miss him?’ This question caught me off guard, but surprisingly, my answer was yes. 

I miss my daddy; not who he was in his darkest moments, but who he was during the rare glimpses of love.  

My dad is never far from my thoughts, but I have learnt slowly to let go of what-ifs and live in the present. Therapy has been pivotal in my healing. It’s given me permission to move forward, accept my past, and know that his absence doesn’t define me.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing rosy.edwards@metro.co.uk.

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