The Father They Got — and the Mother They Always Had

Chapter 1: The Father They Got — and the Mother They Always Had

As time passed, my boys grew up with a version of fatherhood that felt more like a shadow than a presence.

They became slowly accustomed to a man who always had a scotch or vodka in his hand. A man whose priorities were fishing and hunting. Mates, and freedom — not fatherhood.

They learned, early on, that they could always count on me. I was the one who showed up, the one who made the lunches with special notes, who kept school routines in place and packed the bags. The one who handled the meltdowns, managed the schedules, doctors appointment and the parent who held space for their emotions and comforted them when they weren’t well.

They watched someone blow in and out of our lives like a summer storm. Unpredictable. Loud. And gone again before the damage settled. Begging for attention only to be met with a competition for his affection.

But I stayed. I always stayed. I will always stay. Because I thought this was the best I could ask for, having been raised in abuse and neglect, so this felt like an upgrade. A man who wanted the picture of a family, even if he didn’t contribute to one. Presents over participation, wasn’t it an upgrade from what I had?

He paid one week of rent every two weeks, the man working full-time. The rest was on me. Financially, emotionally, physically I carried it all.

I cooked every meal. I made sure the house was clean, the fridge was full, and there was a cold drink waiting for him when he got home. I absorbed the chaos so my kids could feel something that looked like peace.

I stopped being a woman with dreams. I became a function, a caretaker, a giver. I became a living robot, being strong, taking everything on and carrying it on. Because I was afraid.

Afraid that if I asked for more, he’d run. Afraid my boys would lose the only father figure they had. Afraid of what he’d become if I said, “This isn’t enough.” I’d seen what he did when things didn’t go his way. He’d create a pity party . Make himself the victim. Twist reality until I questioned my own memory. So I stayed, holding my breath, walking on eggshells. Playing a daily game of emotional roulette, hoping today wouldn’t be the day it all came crashing down.

But deep down, I knew — This wasn’t a foundation. It was a fault line.

Chapter 2: A Slave in a Shared Home

I was a single mother in a relationship. I had a partner, technically, but he didn’t participate. Not really. Not in the parenting. Not in the pressure. Not in the pain. Only would participate for show, and that was displayed with abuse and anger.

He wanted the image of a partner, of being a doting dad and a committed man. But all he really wanted was control and the comfort of having someone do everything for him. In public, I filtered his judgment. Smoothed over the offensive things he’d say. Laughed at jokes I hated because I knew what would happen if I didn’t. People would shift uncomfortably and he’d turn it on me. The anger. The sulking. The victim routine. So I became his buffer.

He got to look “normal.” I got to carry the shame, Behind closed doors, I was a modern-day slave and as the years passed, it only got worse. New friends brought new addictions. New habits. New masks.

He created version after version of himself, each one more detached from reality than the last and all the while, I was clinging to scraps of what I thought a family should look like, to the world, we looked okay. But behind the front door, I was drowning in silence, in abuse, in control. In fears, because when you’re with a man who only wants control, love isn’t soft. It’s sharp. Conditional. Manipulated.

And no matter how much I gave. He never saw me.

Chapter 3: Left Alone with Everything — Again

It started small.

After the breakup with the Silblings be was fishing with, then he started using my son for attention but this didn’t last long, I thought he was doing things with my son so I could get a break after having my second child. As I was the one doing everything still, after giving birth: Including mowing the lawns the day after I gave birth, while he sat on the front step with the boys drink in hand and watched, I laughed though but internally cemented the man he was and I was a slave.

Then within months this changed, covid restrictions lightened, and he ran again at the first sight of light.

First, it was quick trips to visit mates, people I had introduced him to. Then it was camping. Hunting. Next came the gun licence, and suddenly his weekends were full again, but not with us. He didn’t ask if I was okay with it, he didn’t check if the boys had something on, he didn’t offer to move things around. He’d just say, “I’m going away.”

No conversation. No room to speak. Just a notification, as if my voice didn’t belong in the decisions anymore and if I questioned it? He’d say, “If you want to do something, just say so.” But how could I lean on someone who never made space for me?

He didn’t see the impact. Not on me. Not on the boys.

While he was off making plans, I was being the glue. I was holding it all together. The school drop-offs, dinners, laundry, bills, emotions, stability.

One gun became two. Then came lay-bys and unspoken spending. He’d show up suddenly with new gear, proud and oblivious, while I was supporting the family, managing the boys, building a small business from the ground up.

I had finally started making money. Real income, Something I was proud of. Something I built while everyone slept. With 3 a.m. nights. Exhausted mornings. Still cooking, cleaning, mothering, holding it all up — alone.

And when he saw my independence? He didn’t celebrate it. He dismissed it.

“It’s just a hobby,” he said.

But this wasn’t a hobby, it was survival, it was purpose. It was mine and while I built something real for our family, he chose to focus on himself, his interests, his ego, his schedule — leaving the rest on me.

Chapter 4: A Revolving Door and a Ghost in the Home

Then came a new group of people. People I didn’t know. He met them through work or so he said.

It started with another fishing trip. Then another. And soon, it wasn’t just fishing. It was late nights and early morning. Then becomes leaving the night before to stay on the boat drinking and doing drugs to stay awake. Constant Disappearances and Silence. Lies and excuses.

I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t have the energy to keep tabs, I was too busy being everything to everyone. I worked every night to keep my business going to give my boys the life I never had. Sacrificing sleep, sacrificing rest. So that during the day, I could be present, where I could make memories with them. So they would know joy, not just survival.

I kept the house spotless. Clothes were always clean. Meals were always made. The bills were paid. The emotions were managed and still, I watched him drift further away, like smoke I couldn’t catch. He rolled in and out like a ghost, unpredictable more unreliable then ever, withdrawn. Only bringing more irritated and angry, with us as his target. Everyday, I became more invisible in the very home I built. He had created a life where I did everything and still, he saw himself as the one carrying the load.

But I was the one holding it all. And slowly, I began to realise that what I thought was partnership was really abandonment in disguise, but still held on because I was frightened of being like my family and divorcing.