I was five when my mother packed one suitcase and left our home. I stood by the window, hoping she would come back, but she never did. After that, it was only my dad and me.
He worked four jobs. He left home before the sun came up and returned late at night, smelling of sweat, grease, and cheap coffee. His hands were rough and his eyes were always tired. Even so, we were still poor. The fridge was often almost empty, and my clothes came from secondhand shops. I saw other kids with new toys and shoes, and I started to feel jealous and bitter.
When I became a teenager, that bitterness turned into anger.
I called him a loser. I told him that if he worked so hard and we were still poor, then maybe he wasn’t good enough. I said it in a cruel way, full of anger and pain. I thought he would shout at me or punish me.
But he never did.
He only smiled gently and stayed quiet. That silence made me angrier. I thought it meant he was weak. I didn’t realize then that it was actually strength.
When I was seventeen, my mother came back.
She arrived in a fancy car, wearing expensive perfume and jewelry that shined in the sun. She now had a rich husband, a big house, and stories about her “new life.” She talked as if the past didn’t matter anymore. I was impressed by all of it.
When she asked me to go with her, I agreed right away.
I packed my things and left my dad standing at the door of the small house he had worked so hard to keep. He didn’t beg me to stay or cry. He hugged me and said, “If this is what you want, go.”
After that, he never called me. I told myself he was mad and too proud to contact me, so I didn’t call him either.
Ten weeks later, I came back to town to visit old friends. Without planning it, I stopped by our old house.
When I opened the door, I felt scared. The house was almost empty—no couch, no TV, no pictures on the walls. It felt like everything had been erased. A neighbor saw me and came over, looking sad. She told me my dad had been in a serious car accident. He had many surgeries and sold everything he owned to pay the hospital bills and survive.
I rushed to the hospital.
When I saw him in the hospital, covered in tubes, pale and much thinner than I remembered, my legs almost gave way. I cried hard and begged him to forgive me for leaving him, for choosing my mother, and for calling him a loser.
He opened his eyes and smiled.
“I always knew you would come back,” he whispered. “I know the child I raised.”
I called my mother, desperate and asking for help. Her voice was cold. She said, “If you choose him, don’t come back.”
In that moment, I finally saw her for who she really was.
I stayed with my dad. I slept on the hospital floor and helped in any way I could. After a few days, he slowly started to get better. Watching him fight to live made me understand the truth.
He never gave up on me, even when I gave up on him.
That is what real love looks like.