Growing up with a single mother—How to ‘honour’ an absent dad?

Part 1

There is a narrative that society often pushes about children raised by single mothers. We hear the comments online, the judgement in conversations, and the assumptions that children from single-parent homes are somehow ‘broken’, ‘troubled’, or disadvantaged beyond repair.

But I think what many people fail to see is the strength behind so many of these homes. They fail to see the mothers who sacrifice daily, the women who quietly carry the emotional, financial, and spiritual weight of raising children largely on their own.

They fail to see the children who grow up learning resilience, compassion, and independence because of the love they received from one parent who gave everything they had.

I am a product of a single mother, and my experience was both beautiful and painful.

My mother did her absolute best with what she had and what she knew. Looking back now, as an adult, I realise how extraordinary she truly was. She supported me in ways I did not even know were possible at the time.

There were moments when I was difficult, and only now, in adulthood, do I fully understand how hurtful that may have been for her. As children, we often fail to recognise the emotional load our parents carry.

My mother was often the one correcting me, guiding me, and holding me accountable, and at times, it felt unfair. Especially because my father, who was not a constant presence in my life, rarely did the emotional work of parenting.

Yet, despite his absence, I always loved him deeply. I never disrespected him. I always wanted to be the perfect daughter. In many ways, I spent years trying to earn a love and acceptance that should have come naturally.

I would watch him show kindness, attention, and care to other people and quietly wonder why it seemed so difficult for him to extend the same to me.

There is a particular kind of hurt that comes from feeling unseen by a parent.

As a child and even into my young adult years, I would ask myself and my mother, “Why doesn’t he accept me?” That question stayed with me for a very long time. What makes it even harder is knowing my mother tried.

She made countless efforts to encourage a relationship between us. She encouraged him to spend time with me, get to know me, take me out, be present. But time and time again, those efforts were declined.

As I got older, my relationship with my father became even more strained. I was always the one reaching out, checking in, trying to maintain communication. There was a time where I genuinely forgot to call because I was overwhelmed by other circumstances in my life.

When I thought he called to find out if I was okay, instead he called me upset, accusing me of not caring about him. He told me that as his daughter, it was my responsibility to check up on him. I remember thinking how unfair that felt. Because somewhere deep inside, I still believed that a father should want to check in on his child, too. We have not spoken since that conversation.

There was also a moment that deeply challenged my understanding of what it means to ‘honour’ a parent. I once shared my experience with a coworker, explaining the strained relationship between my father and me and how difficult it had been emotionally.

Their response to me was, “At the end of the day, that is still your father, and the Bible says to honour your mother and father so your days may be long.”

I remember feeling angered by that statement. Not because I disagree with Scripture, but because comments like these are often said so casually to children who have experienced emotional hurt, rejection, or abandonment from parents.

Too many times, people expect children to quietly accept harmful behaviour and simply move on under the guise of, ‘That is still your mother,’ or ‘That is still your father.’ But it is not always that simple.

That conversation made me sit and truly ponder what honour looks like in situations where there is pain, distance, and silence. If someone consistently makes you feel unloved or unwanted, how exactly do you honour them? Especially when there is no communication, no effort, and no relationship?

I even asked a priest once, “What do I do?” And his response stayed with me. He told me that honouring my father did not necessarily mean pretending the hurt did not exist or forcing a relationship that lacked mutual care.

He said I could honour him by praying for him. That answer gave me peace. Because perhaps honour is not always found in constant closeness. Sometimes honour is choosing not to hate someone despite your pain. Sometimes it is praying for them, wishing them well, or refusing to let bitterness consume your heart.