When I was five, Mom left. Dad worked four jobs, always tired and absent, and I resented our tiny, struggling life in Leeds. At 17, Mom returned in a fancy car, promising a glamorous life. I chose her, left Dad without a second thought, and mocked his last offer of money.
London was exciting at first, but Dad never called. Thinking he didn’t care, I grew proud of my new life. Visiting the old neighborhood weeks later, I found Dad’s apartment cold and empty. On the sofa were his work uniforms with charity notes, and in the kitchen a ledger full of money he had quietly saved for *my* future. He had been working nonstop not because he was a “loser,” but to fund my education. He’d been diagnosed with lung cancer the day after I left, and checked into hospice the moment I drove away.
Calling the hospice, I learned he had died two days earlier, speaking about me until the end.
Back in London, I confronted Mom, who admitted she came back for status, not love. I left her again, used Dad’s savings to buy a home, became a teacher, and wear his grease-stained watch every day.
Now I teach my students that real worth is sacrifice, not wealth. If you still have the chance, tell those who’ve given for you that you see them.