Where Did My Childhood Go?

My dad’s stuff was gone. All of it—his clothes, shoes, brush, work files—everything. There wasn’t a single trace of him anywhere; all that lingered was the faint smell of his cologne.

My mom and dad used to fight pretty often. My elder brother, younger sister, and I had gotten used to him disappearing for long periods of time, but he always came back. Earlier, his things were always there as reassurance. But this time, I felt it in my gut and my spirit that something was different. When my mom came back from work that evening, she told me that he was never coming home again. No reasons, no explanations—just, “Daddy’s not coming back.”

I was too young to know what heartbreak was at the time. In retrospect, I realize that what I experienced then was heartbreak—that dreaded feeling of someone holding your heart and squeezing. I had always been “daddy’s little girl.” We were three siblings, and people often commented that I was most like him. I had his smile, and he had a unique ability to make people laugh their guts out—somehow, I had inherited that sense of humor.

Above all, I always felt that he understood me. When my mother broke the news to us, instead of being angry with my dad for leaving, I was mad at my mom. I was sure it was her fault. I believed she had driven him away. She was a great mother—very creative, intelligent, beautiful, and hardworking—but she seemed so unhappy all the time. Dad, on the other hand, was carefree, loved life, and enjoyed joking around.

My parents never sat us down to explain why they separated. They didn’t even tell my brother and sister that they had separated. My brother had been sent off to a boarding school in North India a few months before they separated, and my sister was told that Dad had to look after our grandmother. I started to wonder why my mother only told me the truth. Did she think I, a 10-year-old, could handle it? My dad was no longer allowed to simply drop in at home as he pleased.

He could only visit us for a few hours or take us out on Thursdays, which was our school holiday. Christmases, Easters, and birthdays became strange. Whenever my parents were in the same room, there was an eerie silence. No one wanted to talk or say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing and starting a fight. My parents were barely civil to each other. I think by then everyone in our building knew they had separated, but people would still ask us where he was. I remember squirming and feeding them lies.

My teen years were the worst of my life. Of the three of us, I became the most rebellious. I did badly in school—even failed and had to repeat a class; I think it was Standard VIII. My mom and I always fought. I didn’t even want to see my dad that much. He would take us out and sometimes ask us to lie to Mom. I hated that. I even hated it when people tried to cheat my mom just because there wasn’t a man around to protect her.

Many years and several counseling courses later, I gained a deeper insight into my own behavior and my parents’ marriage. I always thought—and pretended—that my parents’ marriage hadn’t affected me, but it did. I became a very sensitive child. If anyone raised their voice at me, tears would start swimming in my eyes. I suffered, and at times still struggle, with low self-esteem and confidence.

I kept doubting my abilities and capabilities. So many times when my parents disciplined me, they didn’t do it in love; I often didn’t even know what I was being punished for. Though we did enjoy some fun times growing up, there was always that sense of doom. I always knew they wouldn’t last, and after the holidays, they’d go back to screaming and shouting. During my teens, I was in and out of love constantly—another area of my life that left me vulnerable and very broken.

As a child and teen, I faced terrible injustice, but I could never tell my parents. I felt they would just get angry and not believe me. So I let it pass and simply cried into my pillow.

When the time came for me to get married, I began to doubt whether I could have a successful relationship. But I did get married and have a great relationship with my husband. I have tried to deal with all my emotional baggage so that it doesn’t destroy my marriage.

Today, I understand why my parents were so unhappy. My mother had to shoulder the entire responsibility of raising three children while trying to balance work and home. My dad, on the other hand, seemed happy to be an absentee parent, neither providing for us nor truly caring. He seemed perfectly content to enjoy a yearly visit.

I wish I had been more understanding and supportive, and I wish they could have invested more of themselves in helping me discover my potential and talents—and in simply being there for us.

Nothing can ever replace a parent’s love. And children truly thrive in a happy home. More than toys and fancy holidays, the greatest gift parents can ever give their children is to love each other. One thing I’d like to say to parents who are estranged from each other is: sit your children down and explain why things aren’t working out. Avoid mudslinging and demeaning each other in front of your children—it’s really scary, and children feel forced to take sides. Sort out your personal issues privately, and most importantly, let your children know that you love them, no matter what.

Till today, I do not have a clear idea why my father left, or why he and my mother—two individuals who are each so kind and gifted—couldn’t work it out. However, I also realize that one can go on blaming one’s parents and circumstances forever, if that’s one’s inclination. On my part, I believe the wisest thing to do is to love and forgive your parents, continue to honor them, and move forward with your own life.

Above all, promise God that you will use His grace and strength to ensure your own family is built on solid rock—strong enough to withstand whatever storm life may bring your way.