I was looking for stories about estranged fathers when I found *Alvin.
In this story, the 35-year-old shares how he grew up without a father, the pain of never being acknowledged, and why even now — when his absentee dad is on his deathbed — he refuses to offer the forgiveness everyone is demanding from him.
As told to Adeyinka
I don’t hate my father. I just don’t know him. That’s what I keep telling people, but they don’t seem to hear me. They keep saying, “He’s still your father”, as if the title alone means anything. As if blood can make up for absence.
I’m 35 years old, and in all those years, my father has been nothing but a name I barely acknowledge. He was never there to carry me as a child, to scold me as a teenager, or to guide me as a man. And now, as he lies on his sick bed, his other children — my step-siblings — have gathered around, trying to convince me to visit him. To forgive, to show up.
But where was he when I needed him?
I was two years old when my father disappeared from my life. My mother said there was no fight, no warning; he just left. According to her, the only explanation was spiritual. “Something was tying him away from us,” she would say, as if that made it better.
I never understood that logic. How does a man wake up one day and decide his wife and son no longer exist? How does he move on like we were just a bad phase in his life? My mum tried to reconnect with him a few times, but by then, two other wives were in the picture. My existence had become an inconvenience, another problem in a family that had already moved on without me.
So, she stopped trying. And just like that, I grew up with the knowledge that I had no father.
My mother did everything she could to make up for his absence. She worked multiple jobs, made sure I never lacked, and never let me feel like I needed him. But no matter how much she tried, there were things she couldn’t shield me from. Like the way teachers would ask about my dad at school, assuming every child had one. Or the way Father’s Day always felt like a cruel joke.
The hardest part was the questions.
“Where is your daddy?”
“Why doesn’t he come to see you?”
“Do you ever talk to him?”
I learned to lie. I would say he was working abroad. That he was busy. That he would come back soon. I never admitted that I didn’t even know what he looked like.
Then my mother died.
I had just finished secondary school when she got sick. It happened so fast. One minute, she was making plans for me to go to university; the next, I was standing at her graveside, wondering how life could be so unfair. I remember sitting alone after the funeral, feeling completely abandoned.
And still, my father didn’t come.
I don’t know if he heard about her passing or if he simply didn’t care. Either way, it didn’t matter. My grandmother took me in and did her best to raise me, but by then, I had already learned one thing: I was alone in this world.
Over the years, my father’s absence became less of a wound and more of a dull ache I learned to live with. I stopped expecting anything from him. I went to university, graduated, built a life for myself—all without him. I made peace with the fact that I didn’t have a dad, and I didn’t need one.
But for some reason, his family refuses to accept that.
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His other children—my half-siblings—have reached out to me many times, trying to arrange reconciliation meetings. I’ve turned them down every single time. What’s the point? I’m not looking for closure. I’m not searching for lost time. I don’t care to build a relationship with a man who never once tried to be in my life.
But now, things are different. This time, they’re not asking me to meet him just because. They’re saying he’s dying. “It would mean a lot to him and you’ll regret it if you don’t. This is your last chance,” they say.
But the thing is, he hasn’t asked for me. Not once. They keep talking about forgiveness, but how do you forgive someone who hasn’t even acknowledged their wrongs? If he had called for me himself, if he had said, “I want to see my son before I die,” maybe I would feel something. But he hasn’t.
And that tells me everything I need to know.
I know people think I’m being harsh. That I should be the “bigger person” and let go of the past. But I’m tired of being told that my feelings don’t matter just because someone is dying. Where was this energy when my mother died? When I was a child wondering why my father didn’t love me enough to stay?
Forgiveness isn’t something you force. It’s not a button you push because it’s convenient for other people.
I’ve made my decision. I won’t be going. Not because I hate him, but because I’ve lived my whole life without him, and I’m not about to change that now just because time is running out. If he had truly wanted my forgiveness, he would have asked for it when he was still strong, not when he had no choice left.
I refuse to be pressured into a moment that’s not mine to create. And if he takes his last breath without ever seeing me, then so be it.
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