Goodbye, Daddy
20 Jun 2009 1 Comment
in family Tags: alcoholism, autobiography, domestic violence, emotional healing, fathers day, inspiration, inspirational books, life writing
It’s such a shame that so many women today have grown up without the love of a father. For whatever reason, they have been left with a daddy-shaped hole in their heart that cries out to be filled. Mine is just one of many sad stories of a father’s love lost, and the repercussions this loss can have on a daughter. In my case, God brought my father and I back together just weeks before he died. It was a time I will always treasure but it will never completely make up for the 33 years we were separated.
My book, Back in Daddy’s Arms, is a bittersweet and poignant true story with a touching ending. It was written to offer hope, healing and inspiration for others suffering the emotional wounding of growing up without a daddy’s love. It is dedicated to those who never grew up being ‘Daddy’s little princess’. I hope you enjoy the following excerpt.
Goodbye, Daddy
The little girl tries to be brave and not cry, but the fear in her eyes is unmistakable––as real as the sound of glass shattering against the other side of the door.
The man shouts in rage once again, ‘I’ll kill you’.
The younger ones sob louder and louder until their cries become an unbearable and deafening noise in their young mother’s ears.
‘Shh, shh’, she tries to reassure them in her comforting mummy voice, ‘It’ll be alright. Let’s sing a song. Are you ready?’ There is a familiar tremble in the woman’s voice and the children recognise it––fear. Instinctively they know there is no song in their mother’s heart.
It is a small bedroom. The mother pushes a large timber duchess up against the door with her hips. First one corner, then the other, very quickly until the unit rests against the door affording some protection, but for how long? The mother plants herself on the floor at the other end of the duchess and pushes her back firmly against the solid timber––still no match for the unfolding fury on the other side of the door. She is thinking all the time. What else can she do to keep him from breaking down the door and killing them all? Her strength is no match for his alcohol-induced might. She knows only too well his capabilities. She pushes the baby’s cot against the opposite wall with her feet, then firmly presses against the timber edge. This affords her little more protection but soon her feet cramp and her body aches.
More of the madman’s shouts assault their ears. This time there is another noise as well. No! He has a knife! A blade of some sort and he is thrusting it repeatedly into the wooden door. The baby begins to cry in her big sister’s arms.
‘It’s alright,’ the girl says trying to comfort the child. The three younger brothers huddle around their big sister, the terror in their innocent eyes all too clear.
The mother remembers the rifle she had found earlier. She’d done what she could to render it useless and hide it. But what if he found it? He would surely use it this time.
As the hours pass, the stifling Townsville heat torments them in their prison. Beads of sweat roll down their faces mixing their tears into a salty cocktail, exacerbating their already unquenchable thirst. The mother’s tiredness is obvious even though she tries to hide it from her little ones. She speaks again with an outward calm but there is that inward tremble in her voice again.
‘Go to the window and call out to the neighbours. Ask them to phone the police.’ The children do not respond, frozen to the spot in fear.
‘It’s okay, children. Go ahead. Go. Quickly.’
The big sister assumes her responsibility. Her tiny frame moves steadfastly to the window of the high-set house. Bravely she calls out, ‘Help, help! Please call the police.’
Time moves in slow motion as they wait in hope for help to arrive. Then a car pulls up outside…doors open and close…footsteps come up the front path, then the stairs…voices…shouts. The children’s crying is muffled behind their hands. The little brothers bury their faces deep into their big sister’s side. A strange voice close by––the mother hopes it is a policeman.
The voice is comforting. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now, can we come in?’
The young mother closes her eyes momentarily and gives thanks then slowly draws herself to her feet, limbs aching from too long in their unnatural position. This policeman had come just in time, her strength had waned; she would have given up. She knew that they had all been only minutes, even seconds away from death. Fighting back tears, the mother lovingly hugs each of her little ones and tells them to trust the policeman.
The little girl feels safe in the stranger’s strong arms as he scoops her up and carries her out of the room. On the other side of the door she notices big chunks had been chopped out. In places, the knife had hacked all the way through and into the timber duchess. Broken glass covers the polished wooden floor. No wonder the policemen want to carry her and the others to safety…
As this scene unfolds in my mind’s eye, my heart goes out to this little girl and her experience resonates deeply within me. I want to hug her and reassure her that it’s going to be okay. I feel her pain as she pines for her daddy. She doesn’t know when she will see him again or even if she really wants to; he can be so mean and cruel. Still, she loves him regardless.
Out of all my childhood memories, this has always been the most painful. I have run that movie in my mind thousands of times over the years and each time tried to comfort that little girl inside but I was never totally successful in my plight––until now. This is our story.
© Sharon Leigh Hill (All Rights Reserved Worldwide)
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