From Daddy’s Girl to Ghosted Daughter: A Story I Still Don’t Know How to Tell (But I’ll Laugh About It So I Don’t Cry)

There are some stories that don’t have a clean beginning, middle, or end. They just sit there—unfinished, unresolved, like a crap Netflix series that gets cancelled right before it all makes sense.

This is one of those stories.

I haven’t spoken to my dad in seven years. Not because I hate him. Not because of some massive Jeremy Kyle-style showdown. But because I got twisted, tangled, and turned into something I never wanted to be—my mum’s personal attack hamster. A full-grown woman used like a tool in a bitter custody battle that technically ended in the ‘90s but emotionally? Still going strong.

We lived in a two-bedroom flat tucked underneath the guest house. And somehow, in that tiny space beneath the dreams, disasters, and forced smiles, an entire world of secrets and manipulation grew like emotional black mould.

I wasn’t a child when the real damage happened—I was in my early twenties. Just old enough to legally drink, but still young enough to believe saying “sorry” fixes everything. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

Before the silence, though—there was joy. There was music. There was van karaoke. I remember going to look at jobs with my dad, music blaring, both of us singing out of tune like we were headlining Glastonbury. He’d shout at people out of the van window—not aggressively, just to make them laugh. He was the funniest man in the world in my eyes. It’s where my love for Star Wars began. Lightsabers, not red flags.

Yes, he had a temper. But he also had this spark. That larger-than-life energy that made the world feel like a playground—until it didn’t.

Everything shifted when I was around ten. We moved into the guest house. Sounds fancy, right? Like the kind of place you’d go for a spa weekend. Nah. This was the start of the slow-motion landslide. My mum had big dreams. My dad tried to build them. But somewhere between her vision board and reality, the foundation cracked—and we all fell through.

That’s where my memory gets hazy. I’ve been told stories from before then, but I honestly don’t know what’s true anymore. My childhood is a badly edited home movie: random clips, dodgy lighting, and half the cast missing.

And then came the atomic bomb: The Breakup.

When my parents split, it wasn’t just messy. It was full-blown World War III: Domestic Edition. I didn’t just have to choose a side—I had to defend it, like some emotionally stunted knight in chaotic armour.

Because yes—while grieving a miscarriage (shoutout to the universe for its impeccable timing), my then-boyfriend kicked me out of our bedroom, which was decorated top-to-bottom in Plymouth Argyle football stuff. Nothing screams "comfort and emotional safety" like a wall of green stripes judging your pain.

My mum was living with my grandparents. I had nowhere else to go. So I stayed with my dad.

And honestly? It felt like living in the bottom of a cave beneath her castle of dreams. The illusion cracked. The mask slipped. The chaos we’d all been pretending wasn’t there finally erupted. And no one made it out clean.

My dad didn’t come to my wedding. He blamed my mum. And yeah, okay—I get that, on some level. But also? Try explaining to people why your dad’s chair is empty on one of the biggest days of your life. Go on. Try not to feel like an abandoned puppy in a fancy dress.

I’ve sent messages. I’ve apologised. Again and again. Not just for what I did—but for what I didn’t understand at the time. For being manipulated. For surviving it all badly. But all I’ve gotten back is silence. Radio silence. Black hole, no-signal, floating-through-space-alone kind of silence.

And now? Now the grief has settled into something colder. It’s not just that I lost my dad—I lost the version of me that believed he'd always be there. That daddy’s girl who thought love was unconditional. She's gone. Probably somewhere in that van, still singing along to Bon Jovi, unaware of the storm coming.

Sometimes I still think about knocking on his door. Just showing up. But then I remember—I’m his daughter. I shouldn’t have to beg for a place in his life.

Maybe that makes me bitter. Maybe that makes me stubborn. But mostly, it makes me done.

Because grief like this doesn’t end. It doesn’t get neatly filed away in a scrapbook. It lingers. It sneaks in when you’re folding laundry or crocheting or laughing with your kids—and suddenly, your chest aches and you don’t know why.

I’m still healing. Still untangling the lies from the truths I was spoon-fed. Still trying to separate love from loyalty from obligation. But if you’ve ever lost a parent who didn’t die—you’ll understand. It’s grief without a funeral. Loss with no closure.

You can forgive someone a thousand times. You can break yourself apart trying to fix a bridge they’ve already burned. But at the end of the day—you’re still that person who wanted their dad.

And somehow, still didn’t get him.