My dad claimed he didn’t know I’d been born

When I was 15 years old, I excitedly typed an email to my dad to tell him the good news.

‘I’m going to private school!’ I said, hoping he’d celebrate my scholarship and be full of praise. But his reply broke my heart.

‘You’re an opportunist,’ he wrote back dismissively. 

Looking back now, I believe these were the words of a jealous, narcissistic man. But at the time, all I felt was an urge to please him, to let him realise that I am a blessing, that I should be loved, cherished, and treasured. I wanted him to feel that I wasn’t a mistake. 

According to my mum, he wasn’t always this way. She said he was lovely in the beginning – kind, funny and compassionate.  

However, he changed when she became pregnant. 

My dad made it clear he didn’t want me, and just one month before my mum gave birth, my father stopped communicating with her completely. 

For the first part of my life, it was just mum and I most of the time, with my grandparents looking after me when they could. I didn’t know any different.

It was only as I entered primary school that something shifted. I realised that I didn’t have anyone to make a Father’s Day card for when we were asked to – so, one evening when I was eight, I asked my mum why. 

She explained that I did have a father, but that he walked out on us before I was born. 

I decided I wanted to get to know him. It felt important. Luckily, Mum was fine with it and we set about searching for him almost immediately. 

Since this was a time before the internet, finding him was difficult. But after two years, Mum found someone to track down my father’s eldest sister in Lagos, Nigeria, who then put us in touch with her younger sister in Edmonton in London, just a few miles from where we lived. 

He wrote that my conception had been the ‘darkest hour of his life’

She told us that my dad had moved to the US and had changed one letter in his surname, which had only made finding him that much more tricky. My aunt had been hesitant to share his number, but she finally gave in after a year – I pleaded with her and my mum to speak with him as my 11th birthday gift.

And I got my wish: I spoke to him for the first time on my 11th birthday in September 2001. 

He said that he was shocked to hear from me and that he ‘didn’t know I was born’, even though my mum’s parents had told his parents about my arrival when it happened. But I did not call him out. 

He promised that he’d call and stay in touch, which he did.  

Two months after our first phone call, I called him ‘Dad’ for the first time, and he addressed me as ‘Daughter’. It was like a dream come true. I felt whole – like a vacuum had been filled. 

In December 2001, just three months after we got in touch, Mum and I travelled to America so that I could meet him in person, with Mum paying for our flights and accommodation.

At the airport, he embraced me and my mum warmly, and swept me up in his arms. He cried, and while I was happy to finally meet him, I wasn’t moved enough to shed any tears.

I remember looking up at him – average build, low hair cut. We have the same nose and mouth, and I got my skin complexion from his side of the family. He was warm, kind, friendly, and he wanted to get to know me. 

My father took me shopping, to the cinema, and surprised me with a birthday cake, saying that he would never forget my birthday from then on. 

We started to bond when we spoke about things like poetry, cooking, sports like ice-skating and running and my passion for singing and dancing. We realised that what I enjoyed doing as an 11-year-old was the same for him when he was my age. 

In the two weeks my mum and I were in the US, we forgave him for being absent my whole life and looked towards the future. 

We continued writing letters and emails to one another. We were close, and he was even on friendship terms with my mum. Things were going well. 

But things started to sour after he told me wanted me to live with him in America to help tutor and look after my younger half-brother. 

I told him that I could not leave my mum or my whole life in London. Though I was only 12, he flatly ended the call at that point, telling me: ‘I have to put the phone down now.’ It hurt my feelings – who does that to a 12-year-old child?

When he didn’t get his own way, his true colours emerged.  

Still, when I discovered I’d been accepted into a private school at 15, I couldn’t wait to share the news with him. But he couldn’t have cared less.

Throughout my time at school he never celebrated my academic achievements. Even when I got 6A*s and 4As at GCSE, he still couldn’t see the merit. I now think it’s because he wanted his other children, sons, to be more successful than me. 

Between the ages of 15 and 18, I continued to receive hateful emails and letters from him, all of which I’ve kept to this day. In one, he wrote that my conception had been the ‘darkest hour of his life.’ I couldn’t understand how he could write such a hateful thing to his child.  

After he called me an ‘opportunist’, I stopped reaching out. I was sad, but I had to be strong. I needed to focus on my education. 

Years later, I told him when I got into university, and he acted like he was proud of me before ceasing communication once again. 

It became obvious that he was jealous of me and my success without him.

I ended up obtaining a law degree from The London School of Economics and Political Science, one of the most prestigious institutions in the world. I knew I had to live my life to the fullest. 

By then, I didn’t feel as empty as I did when I was younger. I was older, more mature, and I had more understanding about the world. And I wasn’t going to allow a horrible man to dictate my life. 

It became obvious that he was jealous of me and my success without him

The third and final time I tried to rekindle our relationship was when I was 27, to tell him I’d just given birth to my son. 

My hope was that, in the eight years since we’d last spoken, he would have matured. Maybe we could start fresh with this new life to bond us. 

Once again, he seemed sincere and said he wanted to re-establish a father-daughter relationship more than anything. I felt happy again.

We resumed regular emails, calls and WhatsApp messages for the next six years, and I visited him once more in September 2023.

But for whatever reason, soon after my visit, he switched on me again and started bombarding me with cruel emails.

I’d had enough.

While I never explicitly told him I would not see him again, I think my wording in our last interaction made it clear, as I have, thankfully, not heard from him since.

My mother and I have never understood why he treated us so badly and have never been given a reason – it’s just the way it’s always been.

But as my mum rightly points out, he cannot disown me because he never owned me in the first place. He never took responsibility as a father, and frankly, we never needed him.

I achieved excellence all thanks to my mum. The fact that I’m a lawyer, author, poet, and songwriter is down to me. He doesn’t get to take credit for any of that.

Is there a part of me that wishes I had a father who cared? Perhaps, because I know that not all fathers are like mine. 

But thank goodness for that, because if they were then we’d all be better off not knowing.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.

MORE: We’re keeping Christmas decorations up until February for our brave little boy

MORE: I make my children pay for their own Christmas presents

MORE: My husband made £60 in 20 minutes – this app has paid for Christmas