I blocked my dying father from my life – I still feel guilty today

When my father died nine years ago, I wasn’t sent any cards or flowers and no one gave me their condolences. I realised that people assumed that it was not really a loss, because we were estranged. But in some ways the loss was more profound: not just the person but also the relationship that might have been – and the chance for us to reconcile.

I also felt extreme guilt. When his girlfriend phoned to tell me that he had died, she said he’d messaged to tell me that he had lung cancer. But because I had blocked his number on my phone, I hadn’t seen the message. When she told me, I was absolutely devastated. And, almost a year on, I am still grappling with his death. I still hold the guilt of blocking him and not knowing he was dying.

So it may sound strange to hear that I still have no regrets about our estrangement. I know that I cut ties with him for the right reasons.

I was seven when my parents separated due mainly to alcohol on his part: my mum gave him the choice of stopping and staying, or drinking and leaving. He chose to drink.

Mum told me he was leaving because mummy and daddy don’t love each other any more. She said I would still see him and it wouldn’t change our relationship, but of course, that was not true. For a couple of years, I saw him every other weekend, but when I was nine, he had another baby with a new partner.

I would go to his house at the weekend and see him with his other family, changing nappies and generally being a proper dad not only to his new baby but also his partner’s children. After each visit, I would be so upset, asking my mum if he had looked after me in the same way when I was a baby, knowing that the answer was no.

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I would find myself wondering what was so good about them that made him want to be a proper dad, and I concluded that he must have left because of something I had done. For years, I held on to the idea that there was something wrong with me to explain why he loved his other daughter but not me.

When I was nine, my visits to his house stopped. I remember waiting for him to pick me up one day, and he just didn’t arrive. And that was pretty much that. Each birthday and Christmas, I would wait for presents to arrive, and I yearned for him to be in my life. Even up to the age of 18, I thought – it’s my 18th, will he get in touch? But I didn’t hear from him. It was very painful.

The irony is that my dad was adopted and had spent his life desperate for a family because he felt his mother had abandoned him. After craving his own family, he then abandoned me, which is hard to understand: when I had children, I wanted to make sure that they wouldn’t have the same upbringing I had. It’s not to say that my mum didn’t do a fantastic job – she worked very hard to make sure that I had the best life possible. But he didn’t pay maintenance, and she had to work around school hours. Life was difficult, and we didn’t have any money.

After not seeing him for years, I bumped into him in a pub when I was 24. I didn’t recognise him, but my mum pointed out that it was him and asked if I wanted to go and talk to him. He gleefully told me how he’d taught his daughter to drive and bought her a car. “Aren’t I a wonderful father?” was his message. Yes, he was – just not to me.

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The truth is, I couldn't get over the fact that he left to bring up another child. So, I concentrated on getting on with life, but some years later, I did try to make things better and to give our relationship a chance to heal.

I had my first baby when I was 34, and I made contact with my half-sister about the same time. We got on and I decided that I wanted my father to have the chance to know his grandchildren – and for them to have a grandfather. So in the spirit of reconciliation – and hope – I agreed to meet my dad for dinner with my half-sister. I wanted to give him another chance to have a relationship.

I hoped the past could stay in the past, but it quickly became clear that he was keen to pin everything that had gone wrong on my mum, saying she had prevented him from being in touch, refused to accept presents and returned maintenance money when I know those things are not true. In fact, I’ve seen bounced cheques and lawyer’s letters saying that he had another family to pay for, so I was basically at the bottom of the pile when it came to maintenance. I realised that he had convinced himself that he had tried his hardest to be a good dad.

We were in contact every few months for a couple of years. But as much as I wanted him to be different, I could see he had not changed at all. I also realised that our political outlooks did not align. I really didn’t agree with some of his views, and I didn’t want my children to be around him. Having re-established contact for the sake of my children, it was partly because of them that I decided to walk away.

But it was also self-preservation. I had allowed myself to dare to have hopes for our relationship, but I realised that what I also wanted was an apology, which was never going to come. I knew he was not going to change and that being in touch with him was actually damaging.

After I messaged to say we would not be going to a surprise birthday lunch his partner had arranged, I got a venomous text from him for putting her in a terrible position, saying that I should have told him myself. After a few more nasty texts, I blocked his number.

Then, about a year later, I got the phone call to say he had passed away. His partner said he thought I had got his messages and decided to ignore them, which felt horrible. Part of me wished that I had been there for him. I felt so much guilt and found myself thinking that things might have been different. But I also comforted myself with the knowledge that I had tried to make things work. It allowed me to realise that things would never have been different.

I went to his funeral. I sat at the back and didn’t recognise the person they were talking about. I left before the end because I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

I’m friends with my half-sister on Facebook and saw people message her to say how sorry they were for her loss. I got nothing because people thought that I had lost nothing. But I had lost someone who should have loved me. I had just lost him long ago. I would have liked him to have taught me to ride a bike, to drive, and taken me on holiday. I was so struck by all those things I missed out on. When he died, I went back to being that seven-year-old whose daddy had left home and gone forever. In death, as in life, we didn’t get to say a proper goodbye.

Erica lives in Kent with her husband and their sons, aged 14 and nine, and writes a blog called The Incidental Parent