My dad left when I was eight years old.
One morning, I woke up and his side of the bed was empty. His clothes were gone. His coffee mug wasn’t on the counter. I remember asking my mom if he’d gone to work early. She didn’t answer right away. She just sat down at the kitchen table, covered her face with her hands, and cried.
That was the day I learned what abandonment felt like.
For years after, I waited. I told myself he’d come back. That maybe he just needed time. Birthdays passed. School plays came and went. Graduation day arrived. The chair beside my mom stayed empty through it all.
He never called. Never sent a card. Never asked if I was okay.
Mom worked two jobs. She skipped meals so I could eat. She learned how to fix leaking pipes and broken heaters because there was no one else. Every scraped knee, every fever, every tear—I saw her handle it alone.
So when my phone rang 22 years later and an unfamiliar number flashed across the screen, I almost didn’t answer.
“I’m your father,” the voice said.
Just like that. No apology. No hesitation.
He told me he’d found me through social media. He said he was sick. That his kidneys were failing. That doctors said a transplant was his best chance.
Then he said the words that shattered whatever calm I had left.
“You owe me. I gave you life.”
Something inside me snapped.
“No,” I said, my hands shaking. “Mom gave me life. You abandoned me.”
There was silence on the other end. Then excuses. Regret, wrapped in selfish desperation. He said he was sorry—but it sounded practiced, hollow.
I hung up.
