One of the most defining traumas of my life was the day my stepfather, let’s call him Alex, left my mother. But for reasons I’ll explain, it felt painfully as though he left me, too.
I was about fifteen that summer. School had just ended, and I remember starting the morning with a Pilates class. My mother was out of the country for work, my sister was away in Scotland with her dad, and I was supposed to be in Norway with my father. But at the last minute, I decided to stay home in Budapest. Looking back, that choice sealed my fate in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.
That morning felt normal enough. I finished my lesson around 10:30 and headed home, expecting a quiet day. Instead, I was met by the sight of a moving truck in front of our house, with movers carrying out familiar pieces of furniture. My heart sank. I asked Alex what was going on, and he calmly explained that he had to move to England for work—an opportunity we’d all discussed together at dinner a few times before. But he went on to say that he and my mother hadn’t told me it was happening so soon because they didn’t want to stress me out; I was struggling with anorexia back then, and they’d worried the news might set me back.
But something in his tone, the way he avoided my eyes, struck me as wrong. It didn’t add up. I wanted to call my mom to confirm, or at least understand what was happening, but my phone was nowhere to be found. Panicked, I tore through my room, checked the living room, even rifled through the movers’ bags, half-convinced one of them had stolen it. No luck. Finally, I turned to the house phone and called my mother, my voice trembling as I blurted, “Why didn’t you tell me Alex was leaving for England today? Why didn’t you say anything?”
There was silence on the other end, and then my mother’s shocked voice cut through. She had no idea what I was talking about. She asked me to put Alex on the phone immediately. I found him downstairs and handed him the receiver, saying, “It’s Mom.”
In that instant, his face went white. It was like watching someone’s whole world collapse in a second. He took the phone outside, and through the window, I saw him pacing up and down the driveway, his movements sharp and panicked. I knew something was very wrong, yet at that age, I clung to the naive hope that maybe he really was just going to England for a few months. That hope was the only thing holding me together in that surreal moment.
Eventually, he came back inside. “I’ll be leaving at 3pm,” he said flatly. I spent the next few hours alone in my room, my mind racing, trying to make sense of things. I watched videos, read a little, distracted myself with anything I could find. But at 2:55pm, a sinking feeling pulled me downstairs. I wanted to say goodbye. When I reached the entryway, though, his suitcase was already gone.
I dashed upstairs to my sister’s room, where I had a view of the street, just in time to catch a glimpse of his taxi disappearing around the corner. And that was it. No goodbye. No final words. Just the quiet echo of his absence filling the house.
I eventually found my phone, hidden in the garden under the grill. He must have put it there, making sure I wouldn’t call anyone, and wouldn’t interrupt his plans. I called my mother again, choking out the story, and she told me she’d be on the next flight home. Until she arrived, I’d stay with a close friend of hers, someone nearby who could look after me.
I’ve replayed that day a thousand times since, and while I know why he left Hungary—he never learned the language, had no real friends, his relationship with my mother was fraying, and to be honest, my little sister never warmed to him—I can understand why he felt he had to go. What I can’t understand, what I’ll never forgive, is why he couldn’t say goodbye.
