There are things I’ve carried quietly for many years — not because I wanted to hide them, but because I never knew how to speak about them without causing pain. Now that you’re grown, and a father yourself, I find myself thinking about the past more often. Knowing your daughter has grown has reminded me how quickly time moves, and how many stories are left unsaid.
I haven’t seen you for months, and I don’t know if you still read my blog or if this will reach you at all. I’m writing it gently, without expectation. I don’t want to overwhelm you or reopen anything difficult. I simply want to give you a clearer picture of what happened when you were very young — the circumstances that shaped our lives, and the reasons things unfolded the way they did.
This isn’t a request, or a confession, or an attempt to rewrite anything. It’s just a quiet explanation, offered with care, so you can understand the truth of that time with softness rather than confusion. What follows is the story as I lived it — the parts I never managed to say out loud.
When I first came to New Zealand, I loved it. Everything felt open and new, and I thought I was stepping into a fresh beginning. I was older than your father, and at that time I believed we might build something steady together. But life shifted quickly. I had been with him for a number of months and went with him to the doctor who had seen him and taken a blood test that very day. That was when we were told he was seriously ill, and everything around us tightened into hospital visits, uncertainty, and long stretches of waiting. He moved in with his mother to be closer to treatment, and the ground under our feet changed again.
I was struggling deeply at the time, and I didn’t have the steadiness I needed for motherhood a second time. Even so, I want you to know something important: you were planned. You were wanted. I told you this when you were a teenager because I needed you to know that your place in this world was never accidental. The difficulty I faced wasn’t about you — it was about everything happening around us, and inside me, at the time. My love for you was there from the beginning, even when my life was not steady enough to show it in all the ways I wished I could.
I had already watched my own father go through blood cancer, and those memories were still close. Seeing someone else I cared about face something similar was more than I knew how to process. I didn’t have the emotional tools I needed, and I was struggling with alcohol at the time. That struggle affected my ability to cope with day‑to‑day life.
The relationship had become unstable in ways that left me frightened and unsure. I won’t go into details — you don’t need them — but it wasn’t a healthy environment for either of us. My stress became so severe that I developed psychosomatic symptoms. There were days when I couldn’t carry you and walk through the house without lining up chairs to hold onto. My body was reacting to fear and exhaustion in ways I couldn’t control.
When we lived together in West Auckland, I was lonely in a way I didn’t expect. I missed my friends. I had no social life. Everything was different to what I thought my life would look like. None of that was your fault. It was never about you. It was me — overwhelmed, isolated, and trying to cope with more than I had the capacity for at the time.
It took me eighteen months to make the decision to leave. It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t easy. It was something I thought about constantly, because I knew it would change your life. Your father had support around him — family, stability, and access to medical care. I didn’t have that. I couldn’t stay in a situation that was damaging my health and my ability to care for you.
I missed you terribly. After you went to live with your father, I tried many times to get access back. For a year, I wasn’t allowed to have you overnight, even though I kept asking. In the end I went to a lawyer because I loved you. I won access because I wanted to be part of your life. You’ve always known that I have mental health challenges, and they were part of what made that time so difficult. I was on a lot of medication then, trying to stay afloat. But none of it meant I didn’t want you. I fought for you because you mattered to me.
Later, you went to boarding school. I didn’t know much about what your day‑to‑day life there was like. You didn’t talk about it much, and I didn’t want to push. I went to the open day with your Nan, and it seemed like a good place — structured, calm, and supportive. You received a scholarship because of the circumstances around your father’s illness and my own health at the time. It cost your Nan very little, and I hoped it gave you stability during a period when I was still trying to rebuild myself.
You were only eight when your father died. That is a kind of loss no child should have to carry. You went through separation, change, and grief long before you had the words for any of it. I want you to know that I understand, in my own way, what it feels like to be separated from a parent. When I was a teenager, I spent time in social services care, and I carried a lot of confusion and anger because my dad had been taken away from me. I’m not mentioning this to compare our experiences, but simply to say that I recognise how hard those early separations can be. I never wanted you to feel alone, even when life pulled us in different directions. I understood that kind of loneliness far more than I ever said at the time.
I also want to acknowledge the family who stood around you as you grew — most especially your Nan. She gave you stability, care, and so much practical support. When you needed your teeth sorted, she found a way to make it happen, even when it cost her a great deal. She was there for you in all the everyday ways that matter. Your father’s family loved you deeply, and you were held by them through so many changes. Their care for you never took anything away from my love; it simply meant you had more people in your life who wanted the best for you.
You also had family on my side, even though they were far away in the UK and you didn’t get the chance to know them. When you were young, I tried to tell you that you had people over there who cared about you and would have welcomed you. The distance made those connections harder, but the feeling was still there. You were held in more hearts than you ever saw directly, and that mattered to me.
You were loved then. You are loved now. I’m offering this with care, so the past can rest a little easier. That’s all.
With love from Mum x