When a Father Forgets His First Family | vent

I don’t even know where to begin because the truth is, my father was never really my father. Not in the ways that count, at least. Growing up, I had the “dad” figure in my life, but I was never his daughter, not truly. I was just someone he was responsible for, someone he had to take care of, not someone he wanted to love. And now, looking at how he treats his new family, it’s all so clear. He was capable of being a father, he just chose not to be one to me.

It’s sickening, really, to see the difference in the way he treats them. He’s kind, caring, attentive—the things I only ever wanted from him growing up. He plays the part of the loving father and doting husband now like it’s his second skin. All the things he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do for my mom and me, he’s doing for them. And the worst part? He acts like we never existed. Like my mom never mattered, like her death wasn’t something he caused. Like the family we were doesn’t even deserve a second thought.

After all the years of his neglect and emotional absence, after how he treated my mom like she was nothing, I thought that maybe, just maybe, when she died, he’d change. That he’d realize the weight of his actions, the consequences of his selfishness. But no. Instead, he moved on, quickly. So quickly, in fact, it felt like she had never existed. He found a new woman, built a new life, and pretended like our pain wasn’t even worth acknowledging. My mom’s death? Just a chapter he’s flipped past.

The truth is, he caused her death—not directly, but in every way that mattered. He drained her spirit with his indifference, his neglect, his lack of care. She deserved so much more, and I wish I could have given that to her. I wish he could have given her that. But he didn't, and now he never will.

But here’s what breaks me most: while he’s busy playing “perfect family man,” he never looks back. He never looks at the wreckage he left behind, at the daughter who desperately wanted his love but was never worth the effort. He never grieved for my mom the way I did because, in his eyes, she wasn’t even worth that. She was just something to move past, like everything else in his life that didn’t revolve around his needs.

And now this new woman? She gets all the good parts of him. The affection, the love, the attention he was capable of giving all along. His new family? They’re pampered, they’re praised, they’re everything he could never be for us. It’s like watching a stranger who stole the father I never had.

What makes it worse is that he doesn’t just ignore the past—he erases it. It’s as if my mom’s death, his role in it, and everything he put us through never happened. He never acknowledges it, never apologizes, never even speaks about it. And that’s what really hurts. The complete disregard for the pain he caused, the lives he damaged, and the love he refused to give.

I guess I’m writing this because I don’t know how else to get it out. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal of watching him move on like we were nothing. Like I was nothing. All I ever wanted was a father. Instead, I got someone who was only interested in being that for someone else.

I don’t need him anymore, but I won’t forget what he’s done. Maybe he’s happy now, maybe he’s found a way to live with himself, but that doesn’t change the fact that he left a trail of brokenness in his wake. And I’m part of that trail.

I’ll never be his daughter. Not the way they are. But I’ll always be my mother’s child, and I’ll carry her memory, even when he won’t.