My dad was never a very present figure during the years that really shaped me. I have photos of us out on bike rides, picking wild strawberries when I was very young. I have vague memories of collecting empty brass cartridges at the military firing range and of early morning birdwatching together, but during the years when memories become more detailed and complex, my dad and I simply didn’t have much to do with each other.
It was my mum who looked after me. She made all the meals, washed my clothes, read stories, and ran our very quiet household (my two sisters had both already moved out). Dutiful, but not happy. Whoever she could have been seemed lost. Whatever hopes of love and closeness she had when she met my dad, whatever she believed he would restore and complete in her life, never came true. When I was fifteen, she left. The little flat she moved to was not big enough to house me as well, and it was said that it was best for me to stay in the house and complete my education. And so, two people who knew almost nothing about each other, or how to relate to one another, had to find out. My dad simply was the reason for my mum’s unhappiness, and my mum, by putting her happiness before her marriage, inadvertently became the reason for my own somewhat complex and insecure attachment style.

(Photo of a pavement in London – author unknown)