The Quiet Ways He Protected Me
June 08, 2025
He couldn't show love loudly. So he showed it sideways. In donuts. In freedom. In silence.
My mum always wanted to be seen as the loving, caring one. That was her image. But it never felt real. She showed love by buying things, by trying to be perceived a certain way. Emotional connection wasn’t something she knew how to do. And it always felt like she hated how deeply my dad could connect with us.
And so he hid it.
He had to hide how much he loved us. How much he cared. Because it would have upset her. That’s how twisted the family system was. And still—somehow—he found ways.
He provided opportunities for me to connect with others. He knew that the only way I could grow was away from the house. He encouraged friendships. He supported them. He even helped maintain them in weird ways I didn’t understand at the time.
Sometimes he made things awkward at home—not to be cruel, but to push me out.
Out toward friends. Out toward life.
“Go escape this,” he seemed to say.
“Go out. You’ll be okay.”
And when I was 14, 15, wandering around London, getting mugged now and then, my dad didn’t clamp down. He didn’t panic. He said, “He’ll figure it out.”
He trusted me. He believed in me. He knew my mates were good people. And he quietly supported that.
One memory sticks out more than most:
He used to buy cheap donuts—13p a pack—and drop them off at my friends’ houses. Sometimes to the parents, sometimes to the mates themselves. No big gesture. Just a quiet “thank you” for being in my life.
I used to think it was weird. And maybe it was weird. But it was also beautiful.
Because that’s how he loved.
Not loudly. Not conventionally.
But in donuts. In open doors. In awkward silences.
In freedom. In trust.
In pushing me toward a better life, even when he knew it meant letting go.
I don’t think I ever said it clearly when he was alive. But I see it now.
He protected me in ways no one else ever did.
And I carry those quiet gifts with me.