The Family That Wasn't

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My uncle Mark told me I shouldn’t be crying at my dad’s funeral.

That moment has never left me. It didn’t just sting—it confirmed something I’d always felt: he never saw me. Never cared. He made fun of me growing up. And maybe—just maybe—that was his way of projecting his hatred for my mother onto me. Maybe she hurt him, or belittled him, and I became the extension of her he could punish.

I never saw any warmth from him. His wife, my auntie, did show me something that resembled care. It was rare, but when it came, it landed. And that’s what made it harder. She showed me what attention could feel like. But it was so inconsistent. Visits once every couple of years. No real effort to reach out. When they visited my mum, they didn’t invite me. Not really a relationship—just echoes of what might’ve been.

I feel a deep sadness that Mark, like others, seems to have bought into my mother’s perception of me. Like there was a shared narrative about who I was, and none of them ever asked me if it was true.

And honestly, I don’t want to be close to him. I saw him recently, and the rage I felt was raw. Fuck you, you fucking prick. That’s what rose up. He was sick, and I wasn’t sad. If anything, I think I let it show. It’s convoluted. It’s not easy to admit. But it’s real.

Still, we played football—me, my son, my uncle, and my cousins. For that moment, something felt beautiful. That’s why I went. I wanted to show my son that he has extended family. But maybe that wasn’t the lesson. Maybe the real lesson was: you don’t need to chase connection that never chased you.

Then there’s my other uncle, Martin.

He’s a bit of a mystery. I don’t know if he got on with my dad. I don’t know if he wants a connection with me. He says things like, “You could come up to Scotland,” but it doesn’t feel warm. It doesn’t feel like wanting—it feels like obligation. But maybe that’s all he knows how to offer.

And yet… he gave me games growing up. He sent me a birthday card every single year. That consistency meant something. He didn’t have kids—said he felt like an extra child in a family that had already finished parenting. He was the afterthought. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t give more. Maybe no one ever gave much to him.

What I’m learning is this:

Some people don’t want to connect. Others don’t know how.

Some only give what they’ve got, and it’s not much.

And I don’t have to keep bleeding for scraps. I don’t have to chase approval or soften myself just to be accepted.

The family that wasn’t there? I don’t need to carry their absence as my fault.

I’m here now. For myself. For my son. And for the version of me that’s no longer waiting to be chosen.